


By Choice or By Some Reward

by nornling



Series: The Year Before Tomorrow [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arithmancy, Befriending Slytherins, House Elves, Hybrid Legilimency, Insanity, Moral Decline, Murder, PTSD, Pureblood Hermione Granger, Time Travel, callous narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 03:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nornling/pseuds/nornling
Summary: Hermione Granger hasn't done a good deed since 1976, and she's not going to start now.





	1. Invidious Duplicity

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from "These Things" by She Wants Revenge.

Before she even opened her eyes Hermione noticed the unnatural chill of the air around her and the roughness of the stone beneath her head. She was still in Azkaban, then. Had the year reset, or had she just passed out? Hermione held her wrists before her and squinted in the dim light. The marks were gone, though she could still see blood smeared across her skin. Looking up, she saw that the door of her cell was closed, but there was no indication that it was locked. She stood with no little unsteadiness and pushed on the bars. It swung open with a whining creak. Hermione cringed.

Several Dementors floated past her. She wasn't a prisoner anymore, and they had little interest in her, but their presence still froze her insides and deadened her thoughts. The air was thick, and she struggled to get it into her lungs.

Ron appeared in front of her, kneeling with one hand on the ground to steady himself. He said nothing, only looked at her with such a cruel expression that she was forced to avert her gaze.

The other inmates stared at her with hollow, haunted eyes. Hermione imagined her own looked the same, despite her body resetting. The mind would not be so easy to heal.

She tried to remember in which direction the exit was. The air was foggy and cold. Hermione could see only a few yards in front of her. One foot inched forward uncertainly. The other soon followed. Her arms raised in front of her, she picked her way down the hallway. There were no walls to use to support herself, only the freezing metal bars of the cells.

"You don't deserve this. You don't deserve to be free."

"Sh-sh-shut up-p," Hermione stammered, teeth chattering so hard she feared they would rattle out of her skull.

Ron walked just behind her. She could sense his presence, and she did her best to ignore him.

First her foot, then her hands, made contact with the door. Hermione nearly cried with relief. Ron faded out of existence.

Once she was out of the direct vicinity of the Dementors her vision cleared drastically. It was so bright, and she wasn't even outside yet. Hermione shaded her face with one hand.

It didn't take long to make it out a series of exits. She emerged onto a beach. It should have been even a little bit warm, since it was June, but the presence of even one Dementor sucked all the warmth out of the air. There were thousands in residence. Waves crashed violently onto the shore. Dark clouds roiled, barely letting any light through. Even outside of the prison it was a miserable place.

Hermione quickly became aware that she had a very large problem: she was stuck on an island with no magic and no boat. Did it really matter that she was free, if she would die just outside the prison?

No. Death wasn't an option. She had a job to do.

Surely there were human guards there? Someone had to supervise the Dementors and manage visitors. And there would almost certainly be house elves, to make the meals and clean. Indignation bubbled up inside of her at the thought. Innocent creatures, forced to live with Dementors? She didn't want to believe it possible that anyone would be so evil as to do that, but knowing the Ministry she wouldn't put it past them.

Carefully making her way barefoot around the perimeter of the prison, she searched for any indication of a main entrance. Just as she did, she realized that she was still wearing her prison uniform. Even though she wasn't in the system, they wouldn't check that before Stunning her on sight.

She ducked behind a large rock. No one could spot her before she was prepared.

What could she do? There was obviously nothing around to cover herself with; the landscape was bare but for the smattering of jagged stones. She couldn't Transfigure it or Summon something else. Even if she'd had her wand she had no magic.

It seemed, she thought with no little distaste, that she had no choice but to get rid of the uniform entirely and go sans clothing.

Hermione edged back around the prison toward the coastline. The spray of seawater soaked her to the bones, but she was too cold already to care much. She pulled the gown over her head and examined it. The fabric was worn and torn in most places from continuous use. She gripped it firmly in both hands and pulled hard. It offered little resistance. After several repeats, she held scraps that didn't look much like clothing at all.

She took several ragged breaths, steeling herself, before throwing the pile of rags into the waves. Her anxiety that it would wash back onto the shore was relieved when they separated and were swept out of sight by the current.

There.

Some time later she was behind the great rock once more. She'd thought things through, and she had a plan of action, but still she felt fear knot her stomach.

Hermione thought of the past year. She imagined the bitter cold and loss of hope, the sting of her skin ripping open, Ron's words, Harry's disappointment, the dull pain of thinking. Tears burned in her eyes and she willed them to fall.

"Someone?" she called as she stood up, sobbing. "Someone, please..." She stumbled forward, feeling the role settle on her like a mantle. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to simultaneously warm herself and cover her nudity.

The entrance was blurred by her tears but she focused and moved toward it. She collapsed just outside it, sobbing in earnest and curling into a ball. "Somebody help me, I don't know where I am, someone, please, help me!" Her voice started out loud but ended in a shaking whisper.

There was an audible creak from the door.  _ Please let them be female,  _ she prayed.

No luck there, but she supposed it didn't really matter. It wasn't the time for modesty. It was the time for results.

"Who are you?" The voice was clearly meant to be stern, but he didn't succeed in masking his confusion and embarrassment.

Hermione looked up, wiping her eyes. She projected profound relief and bewilderedness onto her expression. "I'm so cold," she said.

The guard considered her visibly before taking off his outer robe and dropping it on Hermione's knees, determinedly not looking at her. His cheeks were red, and not only with the cold. He couldn't have expected to walk out to a naked girl, after all.

She covered herself with it gratefully. There was at least one warmth charm stitched into the heavy cloth, she guessed. "Thank you," she said in a small, fervent voice.

He mumbled an acknowledgement in return. "If you would stand up and come inside with me, miss," he coughed.

Her limbs were already stiff, but she forced them to move and follow the guard.

"Parler!" barked another guard, this one much older and sporting deep, puckered scars on his face. "What in  _ Merlin's _ name is this? Keep your  _ wand  _ out, you bloody fool!" He jumped to his feet. His wand was not only out, but aimed directly at her heart.

It wasn't entirely an act, Hermione realized in retrospect, that she responded by cowering into the fetal position against the wall in some hope that the guard would see that she wasn't a threat.

"She's not a prisoner, Marcellus," said the first guard. Hermione gathered that his name was Parler. "She's not wearing the uniform, I've never seen her before in my life, and she came here."

"You don't know that," Marcellus growled. "How else would she have gotten onto the island? It probably has better wards than Gringott's. She had to already be on the island, and what other way would that be possible unless she is a prisoner? What I want to know," he added, clearly addressing the lump on the floor that was Hermione, "is how you managed to get out of your cell?"

Hermione did not respond. She feared she would bite off her tongue if she dared open her mouth, she was shivering so violently. Marcellus wasn't wrong, after all.

She heard Parler move toward her, which didn't calm her in the slightest. If he touched her... what would she do? What could she do? She would not be thrown back into her cell. Hermione had barely clung to sanity, she could not survive any more.

"Let's check the system," Parler suggested. Hermione just about cried in relief. She wouldn't be in it! They couldn't incarcerate her! Her trembling calmed considerably, which Marcellus clearly noticed.

The two guards exchanged looks, out of Hermione's sight. "Hold out your arm," said Parler gently, speaking as if to a frightened child or animal. Hermione complied haltingly. He took out his wand and pressed it to the inside of her wrist, mouthing an unintelligible incantation. A tingling trickled up from the spot he was touching, the sensation not unlike when a limb falls asleep. Parler held his hand out and Marcellus handed him a bit of parchment. He tapped the parchment once and words filled the page.

Hermione craned her neck to read it, anxiety threatening to choke her once more. It all bled away instantly once she did read it; the parchment had none of her information on it.

"Name... nothing. Date of birth... nothing. It definitely detected a magical signature, Parler, or this page would be blank. She's not in the system. At all." Marcellus stared at her. "Where are you from, nameless girl?"

She'd planned for this. Once they came to discover that she wasn't in the system there weren't many conclusions they could reach, and that she wasn't from the UK was one of them. "I-I-I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Marcellus demanded, clearly losing patience with her.

"I don't! I don't know! I don't know where I am, or why I'm here, or where I'm from, so please don't be angry with me. I don't know." Hermione curled back in on herself, feeling the cold seep into her bones even through the warm cloak.

Parler stopped the older guard. "Amnesia, perhaps?" he suggested in a low murmur. Hermione still heard.

"You'd better explain that. Some Muggle shite, I take it?"

"Yessir. It's a brain condition where a person can lose their memory. I think, anyway. There could be more to it than that." Parler furrowed his brows. Then, to Hermione, he asked, "What's your name?"

Hermione shook her head, looking up at him with sadness etched onto her face. "I don't know that, either."

Parler sighed. "I imagine this isn't the most pleasant place to be at the moment. Do you know what a Portkey is?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Well, we're going to make you one. Parler and I each have one, along with the other guards. They're tuned specifically to our magical signatures, however, and so you can't even tag along." He pulled a small medallion hanging from a chain out of his shirt, indicating that it was his own Portkey.

Yes! Yes! Hermione would soon be off this godforsaken island and she could stop wasting time and chances.

Marcellus scribbled a letter to the Ministry, detailing the situation and what was necessary. Hermione was far more composed by then, sitting in Parler's chair and occasionally smiling at him. She entertained herself by thanking him for his help and kindness then watching his face go pink. He mumbled that it was nothing.

About an hour later, an owl tapped on the window. Marcellus read through it quickly. "We've gotten permission, and they temporarily waived the wards for this specific Portkey. You can expect to be greeted by Aurors, girl," he reported.

"Where's the Portkey?" Hermione asked, standing and wrapping the cloak more firmly about herself.

"The parchment," he responded. "It'll be time in about... three minutes. You'd better take it now."

Hermione received the parchment with a smile. "Thank you," she said. Then, because she was supposed to be young and naive, she asked, "What did you mean when you said to 'expect to be greeted by Aurors'? Did I do something wrong? Why would they be interested in me?"

Marcellus looked to Parler, his expression indicating a lack of patience for stupid questions.

Parler easily took over. "This is Azkaban, the wizarding prison. The wards around here are very, very strong and very, very selective, so the idea that someone could potentially travel through them is worrying. The Aurors will be interested, and you will also likely have a meeting with the Minister. That about cover it?" He looked to Marcellus, who grunted affirmatively.

"Oh." Hermione bit her lip. Her worry was not feigned, although her anxiety did not stem from a little girl's fear of being confronted by authority. The problem was that while she was confident in her ability to fool two men, she could not guarantee that she wouldn't slip in front of five, or ten, or a dozen, plus the Minister of Magic. They would be looking for answers, and she had none that she was willing to give. However, she had already begun down this road, and if she'd caught the attention of the Ministry in the process then she would just have to handle the situation as best as she could. It would only make her a target if she backed out, and she didn't know whether she could handle being on the run again.

"Prepare yourself," Marcellus said, mere seconds before there was a pull behind Hermione's navel and she was gone from the prison of Azkaban.

Once the hellish, tornado-like ride was over, Hermione had to remind herself to land in a heap on the floor. She wasn't supposed to know how to use a Portkey, after all, and especially just then appearances were everything.

She hastily wiped her hair out of her face, and immediately she saw half a dozen wands pointed directly at her face. Hermione squeaked and scuttled backwards, finding a wall and pressing against it with her back.

"Hello, miss," said an amiable voice. A man stepped forward from behind his Aurors. "My name is Janus Midgeon, Minister of Magic."

"H-h-hello," she said.

Minister Midgeon held out his hand and Hermione took it hesitantly, making sure that the cloak remained covering her. It was too warm for such a comfortable room temperature, but she didn't have much of a choice. "I am aware of your situation. Amnesia, we believe. You know what that is, I trust?" He did not wait for her nod. "I'm afraid you must be questioned again, at length. If you do turn out to be a fugitive and fudged the system, you will be held here until such time as we have prepared a high-security cell for you back in Azkaban. Are you understanding?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione croaked. She had been expecting a man like Fudge, blustering and not scary or effectual at all. Or perhaps Millicent Bagnold. She was in error, she realized belatedly. Millicent Bagnold hadn't come into office until 1980, three and a half years in the future. Prison really had scrambled her wits, she thought disapprovingly. She needed to plan better for these things.

He was clearly pleased by her respectful address, and he rewarded her with a smile and a call for some clothing. After she had ducked into a bathroom to change and came out again, Midgeon beckoned for her to follow him. Flanked by Aurors, they made their way to the Minister's office. Once inside, he waved for all but two to leave. Hermione and Midgeon sank into chairs, he behind his desk and she in a Transfigured one.

She was reminded of talking to Albus. Could she, perhaps, treat this man in the same way she would the Headmaster?

"Tell me what you remember. From the beginning." Midgeon steepled his fingers atop his desk.

Hermione took a deep breath, the gears turning in her head. She had to appear emotionally and mentally confused, while not giving anything away and leaving room for a backstory later. "I... I woke up by the water, without my- my clothes or anything..." Hermione furrowed her brows and brought one hand to her head, as if trying to clear a fog in her mind. She held her breath, willing her blood to rise to her face in a simulation of a blush.

Midgeon nodded, tactfully refraining from questioning her further on what exactly she did or did not have on her person at the time. "Go on," he urged.

"I didn't know where I was, but I saw a building. Where there are buildings there are people, right? So I looked for an entrance. And I... I called for help." She covered her mouth with one loose fist, averting her eyes. "Two guards heard me, and they sent me here."

"You don't remember how you got to the island?"

"No, sir."

"Do you remember anything from before then? Your name? Anything?"

"No, sir."

"That is unfortunate," he said. "Do you know how old you are?"

"No, sir? Do you?"

He examined her face for a moment. "I would say that you could be about fifteen or sixteen. Definitely still a child."

Fear did make her look younger, she supposed. In truth, her body was only a few months from turning seventeen again. "Oh," she said. "So where will I go?

The Minister furrowed his brow in thought. Finally, he said, "I believe you will remain in a holding cell here at the Ministry. It's not because you're in trouble," he hastened to add once he saw her anxiety mount, "it's just until Hogwarts starts. Hogwarts is a school for wizard and witch children. As we can assume you are a child, you will attend Hogwarts. There will be a placement exam, since I trust even you don't know what you know."

That was clever of him, Hermione thought. He had shifted the topic from her detainment in a cell to a wizarding school, and she wondered for a moment whether she would allow that. No, she decided. She knew about Hogwarts, but she needed to know more about why she would remain in the Ministry. "'A holding cell'?" she asked. "You said I didn't do anything wrong, so why? Is it so you can study me? Parler said that I shouldn't have been able to get through those wards. He also said that I'm 'not in the system'. How can that be true? I mean, I must have existed before, even if I can't remember it. Does 'the system' mean the whole world? Or just this country? Maybe I'm not from here."

Midgeon raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully. "That could be the case. Either way, we need to keep you here, where we can keep an eye on you. For your own protection, you see. We still don't know what prompted you to travel magically, and it's possible that you were in danger. That would be one explanation for how you got through the wards. We'll have to research it, and research you. Besides, there isn't anywhere else we could keep you. A muggle orphanage is out of the question, and Hogwarts will not keep students over the summer."

"Couldn't I stay with someone? A wizard family, perhaps? That way you can still keep an eye on me, right?"

"We'll see," he conceded. "Regardless, no one would be willing to take you in on such short notice. You'll have to stay here for at least tonight."

Fair enough. She could hardly hope for more, but perhaps she could afford to push one more time. "I understand. Do you- do you think I could use the library here? Just while I'm here... I mean, I don't think I'll be picked up overnight. I may be still a minor, but I'm on the older side. No one wants to live with a sixteen year old, right?"

Midgeon chortled. His posture had relaxed several minutes before, and Hermione took that to mean that her act was convincing. "Yes, m'dear. That's probably true. You can use the library, but you must approve every selection with a Ministry official. Perhaps I should make a list?"

Hermione nodded wildly. "Thank you, sir! Thank you!" She didn't think she could survive for much longer without a library. The sooner she could begin her research, the better. She had to find a family to fit into, and that would doubtless require many nights perusing genealogy tomes.


	2. Foster Locum

The holding cell was at least clean and warm, which was a vast improvement over her cell in Azkaban. The lack of Dementors and the regular meals were pluses as well. Hermione hardly felt she could ask for more.

The books were the most important thing, though. The "library" that Midgeon had spoken about was more of a catalogue. Hermione decided that she hated this method of researching. How was she supposed to gauge how helpful any book would be if she couldn't hold it, check the table of contents, skim through it? She was glad that she was researching genealogy, a heavily-documented and very general subject.

She scribbled the titles down on a bit of parchment and showed it to her babysitter. "Would it be too much trouble to order me these?" she'd say, looking down at her feet.

At first, she wasn't allowed to take the books into her holding cell, but a chat with Midgeon cleared that up rather quickly. A bit of logic, deference, and sad eyes made him see her point of view. "I'm trying to find my family," she said, voice quivering just a little. "And there are so many families. I'd like to reunite with them as soon as possible."

Her next move was to convince him to allow her access to newspapers. As soon as he caved, Hermione could see why he'd hesitated. She was all over the front page for the first few days, and there were articles published nearly every day. Some painted her as a demon child, while others allowed some sympathy to slip through. Most were suspicious. All were curious.

Would it be a break in character to ignore these articles? She shouldn't lay it on too thick, though. Caricatures people may be, but they rarely liked to think of themselves that way.

"Could I possibly start looking through some foreign newspapers, sir? I don't think my family lives here; otherwise, I would be in the system and found already. Right?"

Midgeon hesitated but allowed it. "Just in Europe, understand?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you!"

It took weeks for her to find an opening. There was an article on the fourth page of  _ La Voyante _ , which as far as Hermione could tell reported the murders of a nuclear family which belonged to a minor branch of the Selwyn clan. 36-year-old Ygraine and 42-year-old Uther were found burnt alive in their homes, while the body of their daughter, 15-year-old Genevieve, affectionately called Veva, was missing. Another hour or two of flipping through the Selwyn family tree revealed that not only was this branch so far removed as to barely respond to Selwyn blood magic, Genevieve also had brown hair and eyes. No portrait was provided and no details beyond that very basic description.

The story was beginning to come together.

Veva's family was visited by unknown ruffians (she would probably imply that they were Death Eaters, for the sake of simplicity) and Veva watched them be tortured and killed. When they turned to her, her fear overwhelmed her and her magic exploded, sending her to Azkaban for unknown reasons. Her clothes were probably already separated from her body, which would explain why she'd arrived completely nude. Her mind had short-circuited and wiped her memory, and her magic became entirely unstable.

All she had to do was fake a slow recovery of her mental faculties. Well, that and pretend to continue researching.

She shuffled that issue of  _ La Voyante _ into her "to be read" pile.

The whole night Hermione struggled to create a false memory. It had been some time since she'd done it, and she feared her skills may be rusty. It wouldn't matter too much, she consoled herself, if the memory was fuzzy or if some details were misplaced. Trauma did that, sometimes.

Hours, it took her. Hours. It was worth it, however; by the end, she'd manufactured emotions so genuine she could feel them resonate within her.

Her babysitter sat across the table from her and squinted at paperwork. He was a middle-aged man by the name of Twilling, and Hermione felt an odd mingling of kinship and disquiet. Perhaps he reminded her of her father.

Hermione picked up the next issue of  _ La Voyante  _ and spent several minutes scanning each article and flipping pages. She reached the fourth, read the headline, and stared at one word: Veva. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

_ She lay under the covers in the dark, listening to the front door creak open. Was Maman putting the cat outside? No, she would have heard the stairs creaking. And there, they were- that could only mean someone had come in. _

_ A sense of acute dread flooded her body, and she slid out of bed. She would need to hide, that much was certain. Being careful not to disturb anything on the floor or make  _ any sound at all _ , she shuffled to the closet and stepped inside before shutting it. The bolt clicked into place, and she winced at even that tiny noise. _

_ Time stood out in sharp relief as she listened intently. She could feel her heartbeat in her veins. _

_ Footsteps in the hallway grew closer, passing by her bedroom and approaching her parents' room. There was silence for several moments, and then Maman's scream split the air apart. It was cut off abruptly, which she found even more unsettling. She could do nothing but listen to the thud of two bodies hitting the floor, and the smaller thuds caused by what she assumed were thrashing limbs. _

_ She wished her closet didn't share a wall with her parents' bedroom. She wished she had her wand. She wished jumping out of her window wouldn't kill her. _

_ Most of all, she wished she couldn't hear the intruders taunts and laughter. _

_ "Veva, you say?" said a man, his voice raspy and cruel. "Your little girl? Don't worry about her. She'll be next." _

_ Renewed thrashing, more snickers. "You won't have to see it. You won't live that long." And then, the unmistakable, "Avada Kedavra." _

"Are you all right, miss?" Twilling asked, clearly alarmed. He even set down his quill.

Hermione blinked and looked up at him. "I'm- I don't know," she whispered. "I saw something. I mean, I, I, I remember."

"A memory?"

"Yes, a memory." Hermione let her gaze soften more, giving the impression even though she was staring right at him that she was looking behind Twilling. "My name is Veva, I think."

"What exactly was this memory?" Twilling asked, all business now. He rummaged around in the pocket of his robes for a moment before pulling out a Quick Quotes Quill.

"My parents are dead," she said after a moment, her voice toneless and detached. "I really am an orphan." Before Twilling could motion her to elaborate, Hermione continued. "I never saw them. I was hiding in my closet and I heard the whole thing. They- they said I would be next."

Twilling looked disappointed that she was being so vague, but he had the tact not to press her for more. Perhaps it was the fact that she was on the verge of tears that convinced him not to. He stowed the Quill away in his pocket and looked at her gravely through bushy white eyebrows. "Would you like to be called Veva from now on?"

Hermione nodded and added for good measure, "I would like that, yes."

*|II8II|*

From then on Hermione wasn't the only one actively searching for her "family". It wasn't a priority by any means, and as far as Hermione knew no one was specifically assigned to the task. Her various babysitters did periodically comfort her with their progress, however.

As emotionally and mentally taxing as it was to construct new memories for a separate traumatized girl, it was a necessary task. She'd already compiled a list of facts that must be included in these memories in some way, a list which was already rapidly growing. For example, Veva mostly spoke French in her family, and had been home-schooled. Beauxbatons taught girls how to use their feminine wiles, according to Veva's mother, and both of her parents were very much opposed to the idea. While they were not pureblood supremacists, they did believe in a heavily patriarchal society and religion. Veva was to remain sheltered from the world until such time as suitors were to petition for her hand.

Never before had all of her research into pureblood culture been so useful.

It was July 31st when Hermione lost patience. She'd been dropping hint after hint, even going so far as to "accidentally" drop the  _ La Voyante  _ article onto the table right next to her supervisor. It was more of a character test than an actual bid for freedom, so Hermione wasn't too frustrated, but Hermione had never been patient.

"It's this one," she said, minute traces of a French accent slipping into her usual received pronunciation. "I'm in this one."

She'd picked Twilling on purpose, as the one she'd judged to have the most concern for her. He had two daughters, she'd learned. He looked up immediately, proof that he was a good choice. "What does it say?" he asked, even while holding out his hand to receive the paper himself. Hermione passed it to him without answering, and waited for his eyes to finish skimming the article. "Selwyn?" he murmured aloud, stroking the stubble where before he'd had a full beard. "From France?" He looked up from the newspaper and straight at her, assessing her.

"Do I pass muster, sir?" she quipped, adding a lip tremble and a bubble of tears in both eyes. She brought out the French accent just a bit more.

"I'll speak with the Minister," he said, and stood. "You'd better follow me." He took a moment to scribble a warning and send it with his pygmy owl, Dowry. As soon as the owl took flight, Twilling grasped her shoulder and steered her out into the hallway.

Hermione could hardly speak; the excitement choked her words before they could even form. About halfway up the lift to Midgeon's office, Hermione realized she had to compose herself. Veva would be excited, but that joy would be tempered by grief. She did her best to cobble together an altered version of the memory of finding the article as well. She was putting the finishing touches on it when Midgeon allowed them in.

"I think you'd better read this, sir," Twilling said, holding out the newspaper. Hermione waited for Midgeon to read, then read again, and then again, with as much tolerance as she could muster. Eagerness made it hard to stand still.

Midgeon said nothing for several moments while he too examined Hermione. "Selwyn, you say?" he said.

"That's me," whispered Hermione. "That's  _ me. _ "

"So it appears to be," said Midgeon. He glanced skyward. "The patriarchal branch is within the UK, conveniently enough. I'll have to convince them to meet with me. I suggest," he looked at Hermione again, "you do as much research as you can."

"I will, sir," Hermione said, keeping her scorn nailed to her throat.

Midgeon dismissed them both, and Hermione returned to the "library" to peruse the catalogue once more.

*|II8II|*

The Selwyns had no problems with meeting her, to Hermione's delight. "If all goes well, we can have you home by tomorrow," Midgeon said. "The only thing that would keep them from taking you in now is any major flaw on your part, which I find unlikely." Hermione thought that that was a little too optimistic, but she didn't argue.

On August 3rd, Morfan and Rhea Selwyn Flooed into the Atrium shortly after nine in the morning. Hermione knew about it immediately, being perched in Midgeon's office waiting anxiously for them to show up. Midgeon looked up from his paperwork and smiled at her. "Just a few more minutes," he said.

Keeping up appearances was, in this instance, no problem at all. She really was eager to meet with the Selwyns. She was even more eager to stop wasting time and get out of the Ministry and into the real world.

Hermione heard their footsteps sounding down the hallway from the moment they stepped out of the lift, thanks to the sound-enhancing charm on the Minister's office. There were only the two pairs, so either one of them decided not to come or they had no escort. It was entirely possible that it was a show of trust on the Ministry's part. Clever, she thought.

The rap on the door was decisive- Rhea Selwyn, she supposed. Midgeon waved his wand and the door opened. The Selwyns showed no hesitation in stepping through, as if they consorted with the highest-ranking government official every few days. It was, perhaps, close enough to the truth.

"Good morning, Minister Midgeon," Rhea said with perfect grace. Morfan mumbled an echo of his wife's greeting, looking down at his feet.

Hermione, making sure to keep her face hopeful and somewhat fearful, took the opportunity to examine her possible new guardians. Rhea Selwyn was, according to the genealogy books, in her late twenties, and she looked it. She was a strong, if somewhat plain, woman, with soft mother's eyes and a steely matron's voice. Her dark brown hair was plaited in a circlet around her head with a perfection that could only have been accomplished by a house elf. Her robes were elegant but simple, a sweeping black cloak down to her feet.

Morfan Selwyn was far, far older than his wife. To look at him, he was well past his centennial, but in truth he was only in his nineties. His posture was awful and he kept rigid at Rhea's side, tucked in thick wool robes despite it being late summer. For as weak as he appeared to be, he trained sharp, intelligent eyes on first Midgeon and then on her, studying them as she was studying him. She smiled shyly, a test, but his face remained entirely neutral.

"So you're Genevieve," Rhea remarked. It wasn't a question. Her gaze scanned Hermione from her bushy hair to her Transfigured trainers, and then back up to her dark skin. "Very distant relation, I assume."

"Yes ma'am," Hermione said, keeping her tone light and deferential even as her skin burned where Rhea scrutinized it. "My mother's mother was foreign."

"I see," said Rhea. "And just where are you from?"

"Lyon, ma'am," Hermione said. "At least, that's what the newspapers say." She glanced down at the ground, pretending to be properly cowed, and Rhea smiled.

"What do you think, my love?" the Selwyn matriarch asked, turning to Morfan. "We have no children yet."

"I have no objections," Morfan muttered.

Midgeon, who had been watching quietly through this exchange, pushed a piece of parchment forward. "So you agree to take her in, at least temporarily? You'll receive a stipend from the Ministry, naturally, if you do."

Rhea grabbed the quill he held out to her and scribbled her name on the line, then handed it to her husband. He didn't sign right away, instead taking a few moments to read through it. "You really want her off your hands, don't you?" he said to himself, and signed.

Hermione felt energy trickle through her veins like wet sand and then it was over.

"I'd hoped she would look more native," Rhea said. "I don't believe she's changed at all."

That's not always how it works, she wanted to say. This isn't a magical adoption, but a ward agreement. Like foster care. But she said nothing.

Rhea opened her mouth to speak more, and while she chattered away to Midgeon Morfan jerked his head for Hermione to stand. She obeyed without delay.

We'll speak more at home, his eyes said. Hermione nodded back, just a tiny shake so as to not attract Rhea's attention.

Midgeon said his goodbyes and dismissed them all with the reminder that he had paperwork to fill out, and Rhea placed one hand on Hermione's shoulder and propelled her forward. It was all Hermione could do not to throw herself across the room. She could not abide touch. Could not. She shrugged out of Rhea's grasp and sent her an apologetic smile, walking forward on her own down to the lift.

Hermione kept to the other side of Morfan, away from her new matriarch's tendency to be grabby. They stood in the lift in silence, listening to the cool female voice announcing the floors as they passed them. When the lift doors opened again, Rhea swept out into the Atrium and with single-minded purpose toward the Floo. Most employees had already arrived and so they didn't have to wait long. They all crammed into the fireplace and Rhea threw down the green powder from a pouch at her side.

"Selwyn Estate!" Rhea cried, and they were off.

Hermione hated the Floo. Always had, probably always would. She did her best to streamline her body to avoid unnecessary bumps, but she scraped her elbows more than once and she knew from experience that her hair was collecting massive amounts of soot. She didn't dare open her eyes.

It was only a few seconds before they were spat out into the fireplace at the Selwyn home. Rhea twitched her skirt and stepped out as flawless as before, and Morfan didn't appear to have been dirtied in the slightest. Hermione hovered in the hearth, her face burning.

"I wouldn't want to ruin your rug," she explained, beating at her own plain robes. Entire mountains of soot and ash fell to the floor of the fireplace. Her hair was a lost cause; it would take several washes to get it clean again.

"Vici!" Rhea snapped, and a house elf appeared.

This house elf wore a clean green tea towel, and her- Hermione wasn't sure how she knew, but it was definitely a her- ears stood straight up like a fox's. Together they were bigger than her shriveled head. "Right away, Mistress," she said, prim as could be, and snapped her fingers. Hermione felt her curls stretch down to their full length and shiver, shaking the dirt off. It didn't hurt, exactly, but she was hyper-aware of the roots of her hair, as if she'd tried to part it somewhere new.

Vici disappeared as suddenly as she'd come, and Hermione put a hand up to her hair. Her hair was no longer curly, but straight as straw. An irrational anger made her feel light and tall, but she reined it back. "I was fond of the way it was," she said evenly.

"What, filthy?" Rhea snorted, and spun around and left.

Hermione stared after her, furious and impotent, until Morfan coughed.

"I'll show you to your room," he grumbled.

Hermione was not oblivious to the kindness displayed in his offer. Clearly they had at least one house elf, and she'd known many pureblood families. Especially with his age, to offer to escort her was indicative of his concern.

"Thank you, sir," she said, awkwardly putting her hand through his offered elbow. She supported him even as he escorted her, shouldering his meagre weight on her left side.

They turned nine times. Nine! Hermione was quite sure they were deep within the manor, and it would take her weeks to find her way through these hallways. At last Morfan stopped in front of a door identical to all the others in a hallways that was just the same as each one they'd passed. With a quick glance at Morfan, Hermione reached out one hand and pushed down on the curved handle.

Her bedroom was a storm of soft pastel colors. The carpet was baby blue, plush, and thick. Hermione stepped out of her trainers and sank her sock-clad feet in the ocean of soft fibers, observing as it hugged the side of her feet. It was magical, she realized, and the carpet stroked her toes, confirming her thought. Each wall was a gradient of purple to pink, with twinkling stars on the dark ceiling.

It was a child's room, and she looked askance at Morfan.

"My wife has been expecting a son of her own," Morfan explained, expression just as impassive as before. "We have had the furniture enlarged to fit you."

The implications were unmistakable. Had they given up on birthing a child, and instead planned to adopt one? Hermione couldn't imagine any other reason such a well-loved room would be given to her. "How long has it been this way?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Six years," said Morfan. Hermione blinked, startled. Morfan shuffled away, wobbling just a bit. "I'll leave you to explore on your own."

You do that, Hermione thought, but said nothing. She was already moving forward to feel the walls. They were perfectly smooth to her touch but gave way to even a gentle push. The walls were almost as soft as the floor. Without noticing, tears came to her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She could feel the sorrow pooling in this room. She could feel the presence of a child who had never existed at all. She could feel the sustained hope.

Hermione went to the bed and curled up on top of the covers, and immediately, inexplicably, she was asleep.


	3. Selwyn Sojourn

**** Hermione was already awake when Vici came to fetch her. The afternoon was gone, and apparently they were well into the evening.

Vici glared at Hermione's robes, pulling open the wardrobe and revealing a rack of dainty lady's day robes. Hermione frowned. She'd checked every bit of furniture in the room an hour before and there had been nothing.

"Missy will wear this one," the house elf announced. She held out a lacy white monstrosity and inspected both the robes and Hermione. "Mistress wants Missy pretty for dinner. Vici will help."

Hermione doubted that "pretty" was the right word to use, especially when describing that hunk of fabric, but she allowed Vici to undress her and dress her again in the robes. In the meantime she pondered the wardrobe. It was obvious that this room was spelled to be childproof, and that apparently included the restriction of everything except, presumably, toys. Did they mean to send someone to help her every time she was to be dressed, or washed? Testing the door had proven that it was impossible to open from the inside, and Hermione didn't have the magic to waste on something as silly as opening her bedroom door every time she wanted to leave.

"Vici?" she asked, wincing as a bit of starched cloth scraped against the scar on her chest. "Why are there childproofing spells still on this room?"

Vici did not respond, instead Summoning a hairbrush into existence and pulling it through her still-straightened hair.

Hermione sighed. "Shall I guess, then?" When her query was met with silence again Hermione continued, "There are several reasons that could be, as I see it. The first is that no one remembered to take them down-"

"Yes, Missy," Vici interrupted. "Spells be removed when Mistress has time." A ribbon appeared from nowhere and the house elf tied it into Hermione's hair.

She didn't believe Vici for a single moment. Childproofing spells were intentionally simple, easy to add and easy to remove. Unless, of course, they'd used stronger versions such as those found in wizarding daycares. It would be a matter of minutes to completely strip the room, allowing a fifteen-year-old girl her freedom. She opened her mouth to tell Vici so, but the sight of her pinched, terrified face stopped her. "Okay," she said instead. Vici wasn't the right person to have this argument with.

Instantly the house elf's face relaxed. She put her tiny hand in Hermione's and whisked them both away.

The dining room was unnecessarily large for only three people. Rhea and Morfan were already seated, Rhea at Morfan's right side at the head of the table.

Hermione hadn't noticed that Vici had put shoes on her until she took a step forward and didn't feel the smooth cold of the marble floor. "Thank you, Vici," she said belatedly. Vici beamed and bobbed a curtsy before Disapparating.

"How kind of you to join us," Rhea said, matching every stereotype of the catty stepmother.

Hermione wanted to scowl, but she smiled as graciously as she could manage and scurried across the length of the dining hall to get to the seat on Morfan's left.

Rhea examined her the whole way and continued to scrutinize her even after she'd sat. "We have quite a bit of work to do," she said finally.

"Pardon me, ma'am?" Hermione hummed, staring down at the floral china plate in front of her.

"You're not very smart, are you? We need an heir, and while a boy would have been preferable, a girl will do almost as well, provided you make the right choice in marriage." Rhea tapped one fingernail on the table and a posse of house elves appeared, each bearing a covered dish.

Hermione took a deep breath. She'd anticipated something like this. The spells were an attempt to make her dependent on the Selwyns in even the most simple of things. It did make sense, in a way. If she couldn't even dress herself or leave her room on her own, how would she, a child, be in a position to resist the whims of her new guardians? She sat up straighter and gazed at her foster mother even as the house elves measured out bits of every dish onto her plate.

"Do allow me to be candid, Mrs Selwyn," she began. "We appear to have a few misunderstandings. Conflict is to be expected in any new living arrangement, especially where children are involved. However," she picked up a fork and stabbed into a tiny cube of rosemary chicken, "we will have to come to an agreement."

Rhea also began to eat, slicing up her own portion of the chicken. "Go on," she said. Her voice was calm, but her expression was a warning.

Hermione recognized the warning- how could she not?- but she went on anyway. "There are several things that I'm willing to compromise on or even concede. Some things, however, are unacceptable." She gestured up to her hair, keeping her expression even with difficulty. "I am black. I was born this way, and I am both unable and unwilling to change that fact. I like my hair. I like my skin. Attempts to change anything about my appearance without my express permission will absolutely not be tolerated."

Morfan wasn't eating at all, Hermione noticed. He watched his wife and his foster daughter with glittering, amused eyes.

"Is that all?" said Rhea, a statement rather than a question.

"I'm afraid not," said Hermione. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you've simply forgotten to take down the childproofing spells on the room I'm staying in. If it was just an honest mistake, then please just take them down as soon as possible."

Rhea, to her credit, didn't immediately shoot her down. "And your concessions?" she prompted, her tone as one to a small, demanding child.

"I have no objections with being the perfect Selwyn heir, up to and including marrying whomever you deem fit," she said. Something relaxed in Rhea's expression, and Hermione knew that she'd won. Perhaps not so easily, but the outcome had been decided and it wouldn't be too difficult to whittle Rhea down to compliance.

Rhea didn't respond verbally, and the remainder of the meal was passed in near-silence.

As disagreeable as she was to the majority of Hermione's demands, she did send Vici to wash her hair back to normal. It was probably a pick-your-battles kind of thing, but it was progress. Besides, Hermione didn't appreciate someone interfering with her personal things.

*|II8II|*

"I would like to go to Hogwarts," Hermione said over breakfast the next morning. The familiar weight of her hair once again formed a cloud around her head, and her good humour had returned with it.

"Why would you want that?" asked Rhea, appearing genuinely confused.

Hermione let her face fall a bit, and widened her eyes so they would appear shinier, cognizant of how excessive her acting was for the situation. "I need to be around people for a little while, somewhere I know I'll be safe."

Morfan snorted into his eggs and both women ignored him.

"It's safe here," Rhea argued. "The fewer people there are, the safer it is. Would you really feel safe sleeping in a room with strangers every night?"

"Yes," said Hermione without pause. "My family was attacked in our home in the middle of the night. That could never happen at Hogwarts. Never."

Rhea shook her head, and Hermione noticed all at once that her prim updo was ice-rigid. "It's not the same thing, Genevieve. We are not an obscure name or branch; we have money and power. With money and power come protection. This house has the strongest wards on the market. No one will be able to get in without an invitation."

"But  _ Hogwarts _ has the strongest wards. Any wizard school does, of course, but Hogwarts is renowned for them. I want to be there. I want to go where You-Know-Who is afraid to attack." Hermione choked on that last sentence, unwillingly and vividly recalling Voldemort's invasion two years before in her personal timeline. This time she would not give him a reason or a method, she vowed.

"Are you all right?" Rhea asked, setting down her fork. When Hermione looked up at her concerned expression, she realized that her fury had seeped into her face.

"Yes, for now. But staying in here all day, every day, is sure to drive me mad with paranoia. I'm already starting down that path. Every little noise is an assassin come to torture me again, you see. If I were at Hogwarts, I would be surrounded by witnesses at all times. There would be no place for privacy, and that's a good thing. Besides that, I'll be keeping my mind busy with schoolwork."

"You can do that here," Rhea pointed out.

"I could, but what about everything else? It will take me time to heal, ma'am. I won't be marrying right away, and who would want a nervous wreck for a wife?"

Rhea's mouth twitched into a frown. "We'll hire a mind healer," she said.

"Mrs Selwyn, I don't think you understand. I've decided that this is what I want. It's the best place for me to readjust to life in society. Keeping me hidden away will accomplish nothing." Hermione leaned forward, gazing directly into Rhea's eyes and  _ pushing _ .

"We never said we planned on hiding you away," Rhea said, facial muscles twitching again.

"You didn't have to," Hermione said, pushing harder.

Rhea's whole body jumped, and her eyes glazed over for just an instant. It was enough. "You make some very good points," Rhea admitted. "You may go to Hogwarts."

"Thank you, ma'am," Hermione returned, grace coming easily with the euphoria of triumph.

Morfan now looked more confused than entertained, eyes bouncing back and forth between the women on either side of him.

Hermione scooped up the last runny bit of her eggs benedict, struggling to look innocent.

She hadn't tried Hybrid Legilimency since her experiment in Azkaban, and she had none of the justifications that she'd had then. Hermione wasted a moment trying to decide whether she felt any guilt at all, but none came. She  _ knew _ that she was taking away another human being's free will, she  _ knew _ that it was no better than Imperiusing her, but she couldn't bring herself to feel badly about it.

Rhea was stubborn, but clearly untrained in the arts of Occlumency and Legilimency. It was a shame, from a purely magical standpoint, because she would have been a natural at it. She'd already developed some shoddy mental shields, which, coupled with Hermione's lack of experience, made it more difficult to influence her. For a moment Hermione had believed that it wouldn't work, and she'd rarely been so delighted to be wrong. A person's first experience with Legilimency often set the stage for every time after that, at least as far as getting inside the mind went. Following that logic, Rhea would now be easier to influence.

Hermione thought about going to her room and scowled. Vici had had to fetch her again that morning, and no one seemed to have any intention to take down the childproofing charms.

"Oh, and Mrs Selwyn?" she chirped. Rhea turned on instinct, and Hermione took advantage of that reaction to capture her attention. "I would love it if those spells on my room were taken care of."

It was a battle of wills, now even more than before. Rhea didn't plan to budge on that point, and Hermione would not accept any answer besides "yes".  _ Genevieve wouldn't take advantage of you _ , she whispered to Rhea's mind, and felt her barriers relax just slightly. She would have to go gently. Battering through would make her methods far too obvious, and would ruin Rhea besides.

"We'll see," said Rhea, ripping her eyes away from Hermione's. Hermione wanted to scream her fury, but she held it in.

"Of course, Mrs Selwyn," she growled, and swept away. She wouldn't go to her room just yet, not until she was forced to. She would explore the manor on her own and think up a better plan.

A part of her expected Rhea to call after her, but there was nothing. Hermione knew the reason. She'd felt it in Rhea's mind. Rhea was terrified, and had no idea why.

It took her four hallways before she could calm down.

The architectural design was becoming increasingly apparent. The house, while not horribly large, was designed to be a nightmare to navigate. Hermione wished she'd had the foresight to find a quill and parchment in order to sketch out each room's relative location, but she hadn't and she would have to deal with it. She could hardly summon the focus needed to undertake such a large task, anyway. After a moment she looked around to find herself in a completely unfamiliar room, with no way to get back. That was exactly her intention, as it happened, and so she marched on, determined to lose herself even more thoroughly within the labyrinth of Selwyn Manor, and in the meantime she surrendered to thought.

She did want to go back to Hogwarts, in the way that she knew she could do very little from within this house. She wanted to make up with Aberforth and collect Echo again. Her urge to see friendly faces again was shadowed by the dread that came whenever she even thought about her old Gryffindor friends. Starting over again from square one was exhausting, and Hermione had no idea where to even begin. And she would find the strength, somehow, despite everything the universe threw at her.

A dark certainty spread throughout her leaden body beginning in her gut. She wouldn't succeed this year, either. There was just too much time wasted, too little faculties to work with, too little allies. This year would be a year to heal herself as best as she could. Maybe... Maybe going back to Hogwarts wasn't the healthiest option. Maybe it would be best to stay here and learn how to be a proper pureblood, to gain connections with the elite. Maybe...

A whole year, wasted. Could she bring herself to stand by, even knowing what she knew? Even knowing she had absolutely nothing left to lose?

Except her life, she reminded herself, and what little was left of her sanity. A broken wand serves no one. Besides, there are benefits to allowing her new guardian to win. She hadn't conducted herself very well thus far, she realized. She was supposed to be gracious and meek, a pathetic little creature who invokes pity, not her usual obstinate, fierce self. Hermione wrinkled her nose. It would be easy enough to fix, since it had only been a few hours of mistakes. And now that Hermione knew for sure she could still use active Legilimency...

Exploring could wait.

"Vici," Hermione chirped.

A snap signaled Vici's anxious arrival, and Hermione smiled. "Can Vici help Missy?"

"Yes, please," Hermione said. "Would you take me to Mrs Selwyn? My manners were inexcusable, and I want to apologize."

Vici hesitated, one ear twitching. "Mistress is busy now," she said. "But Vici take Missy to lunch and Missy will say sorry."

"That's fine. Would you please take me to my room?"

Vici nodded frantically, grabbing Hermione by the elbow and Apparating them both. House elves moved between points in space with far more ease than wizards did, and as a result Hermione felt none of the sickness that was normal for her. Before Hermione could open her mouth to thank Vici, the house elf was gone, leaving behind a vacuum that the cold air rushed to fill. A sound like thunder resonated through the melancholy nursery.

There wasn't much to do in this room. She didn't have even a pen to write with! Hermione plunked down on the bed with a self-indulgent huff, rolling the lace sleeves of yet another ridiculous robe between her fingers. It was important after her series of blunders to obey her foster mother's wishes without complaint, but now that she was stuck in her cell again she was at a loss. How could she spend her hours in isolation before Vici would fetch her for lunch? It wasn't at all that she was unable to find entertainment in the silence. It was more that she was afraid of being alone. Afraid of being unproductive. At least she was allowed meal breaks and conversation, which was far more than she'd gotten in Azkaban.

Well, Hermione thought, glancing around, she would just have to resort to Occlumency exercises in the meantime. One's mind could never be too strong.

Hermione pushed herself up with effort, resigned by now to the stiffness of joints that she couldn't relieve even with her body's perpetual youth. She propped herself against the wall, feeling her shoulder blades press into the forgiving flesh of the nursery. Even now she was busy shutting down her senses one by one. The process was simple yet un-intuitive. She surrendered the scent of clean sheets and pine to the sound of the gentle hum of the nursery's motherly lullaby first. For several moments she listened with single-minded intensity to the soothing song, and then she let it go into sight. She saw dust motes swirling in a stream of sunlight and traced the swirls in the wood. Again she looked around as if this room held the answers to every question she could conceive of, if she only paid close enough attention. And once she was satisfied, she closed her eyes and focused every bit of her attention on the sensations on her skin. The air was warm and still, the bed-sheets soft satin to her fingertips. Her robe was itchy, and the ends of her hair tickled her neck. She accepted it, discomfort and all, and withdrew into her mind.

Without the distraction of a physical body, her thoughts were free to race as they wished, and some separate, higher thought observed those smaller ones. She was well-organized, she noted with satisfaction, even if she was marked for the time being by the stutters and tangles of uncertainty and impulse. Each path wove a web, complicated yet still clearly perspicuous. The web was nearly tangible, in that mind's-eye way, and with mental fingers she caressed the silk. It was her aim now to build a fortress for that web, a fortress which was simultaneously formed with that very web. She would never run out of space or material, and so she was limited only by her own imagination.

Building mental shields while living with thousands of creatures which specialized in breaking down even the strongest of protection was... difficult, to say the least. Hermione saw without seeing the ruins and cobwebs around her. What had been built before had been largely destroyed, bit by bit, but she was pleased to note that the foundation was packed absolutely solid, so solid she could hardly separate the strands of thought from one another. If they were strong enough to withstand constant attacks from Dementors, then Hermione wouldn't dream of replacing them. She would have to build on top of it, and making the walls just as strong would take time. Time, fortunately or unfortunately, was the one thing Hermione couldn't escape from.

There was something to be said for self-introspection, for Hermione had barely created one thin wall before Vici laid a tiny, withered hand on her arm. Hermione could have stayed in her safe haven, but she could recognize that coming back to the physical world was necessary.

"Is Missy well?" Vici asked, an intolerable sadness on her face. Hermione couldn't help but to reassure her.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking. Are you here to take me to lunch?"

Vici bobbed her head, and this time waited for Hermione to stand on her own and announce her readiness before Apparating them to the absurd dining room.

A few nondescript minutes later, Hermione sat across from Rhea Selwyn, nursing a glass of pumpkin juice. She cleared her throat- unpleasant memories of Dolores Umbridge surfaced, and Hermione shoved them down again- and said in a quiet voice, "Mrs Selwyn?"

"Yes, Genevieve?" Rhea said, her wariness easily visible in her expression.

"I want to apologize. My behavior last night and this morning was absolutely unacceptable. I don't know what got into me, but I can tell you right now that it will never, ever happen again." Her eyes caught Rhea's and  _ held,  _ taking advantage of Rhea's moment of shock to slip into her mind and nudge it. This time it was easier, for Hermione had the lay of the land now and could tell that this was what Rhea had wanted. It didn't take more than a nudge to get her to accept it at face value. What did take some exertion was the redirection of those memories which were inconvenient to Hermione's new image. They were to be forgotten- not erased, just forgotten, as if it had happened years ago and simply wasn't important enough to remember. She smudged out the memory of her insistence on attending Hogwarts, but left behind the emotional conclusion.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Rhea said gently, and it was exactly what Hermione wanted her to say.

"Mr Selwyn, how is your day? I forgot to ask at breakfast." With a radiant smile, Hermione turned her attention to Morfan and worked on fixing his mind as well.

 


	4. Practical Legilimency

**** It was easier to shield one's mind than to successfully infiltrate someone else's, at least for Hermione. She should have been proud that she could utilize both skills, but her nagging perfectionism prevented that.

Hermione had had the fortune of attending a school which boasted three dual-Masters in the arts of manipulating the mind, and so she measured herself by those standards. Never mind that the youngest of those Masters had twenty years on her, and that the older two were many times her age. Never mind that she'd already gotten further in the Arts than virtually anyone else by the age of 24, and a Mudblood to boot.

Even so, she had to admit that she was improving rapidly with all this practice. It was the little things that mattered. Hermione had read plenty on Legilimency, and every source agreed that the best way to truly get into someone's head was to condition them to allow it. Of course, she hadn't managed to find any evidence of Hybrid Legilimency being used before, so she had to supplement her reading with research on the Imperius Curse, which sent her down a wholly separate, equally unsettling path.

As far as she could tell, long-term projects, such as this one, were most effective when gradual. Begin with something that the subject would think on their own, and then slowly from there begin introducing things that the uninfluenced person would object to. It was important, no matter what, for the subject to get used to obeying.

_ You're stressed _ , Hermione said to Rhea's mind.  _ You should call an elf and tell them to run you a bath _ . She waited with as much patience as she could muster, and finally after a few minutes Rhea excused herself, expressing her intention to take a bath.

Good, excellent, wonderful. She controlled her glee, turning to Morfan. "Won't you please let me have a bath too? Without a house elf? I love them, but I'd rather they not accompany me in the washroom."

"I don't see why not," Morfan said, his eyes glassy for a moment. That vacancy was a problem- she would have to be even more subtle.

Morfan's mind was as different from his younger wife's as it could possibly be. His shields were nonexistent, and he was so easy to manipulate it was ridiculous. He was intelligent, to be sure, but if anything that made it easier to nudge him. Apparently he'd been a cruel man when he was younger, and only his age kept him in check now. It seemed he'd pulled one too many favors, and he'd been warned that he would receive prison time as he deserved if he didn't rein it in. He fully intended to take advantage of Hermione's youth and naivete to pit her against his wife, and Hermione decided not to squash the idea.

As unpleasant as Hermione found Rhea at times, she couldn't help but respect her. Rhea knew exactly what sort of person her husband was, and she flattered his ego while smoothly guiding him where she wanted him. She would have been a Slytherin had she attended Hogwarts.

"Thank you, sir!" Hermione said, getting to her feet. Her lip stiffened against the curl it was compelled to. Showing her disgust now would be silly.

Appearing to remember himself, Morfan added, "An elf will take you there. No reason to get lost, hm?"

"Yes, sir," she said, narrowing her eyes at the doorway. "Vici?" The house elf appeared, only noticeable through a subtle shift in the air. A breeze where there shouldn't have been one, one might say. "If you would take me to the washroom, please?"

Vici nodded gravely and grasped her by the wrist. Hardly a blink later she found her footing on the slick marble tiles.

The washroom was an antique, designed however many centuries ago. The room contained a gargantuan tub and very little else. The toilet and sink were in another room entirely, somewhere across the hall. The tub was sleek and black, and actually made of ebony, as it turned out. It reminded Hermione irresistibly of the Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

"You don't need to help me wash today, Vici, but I would like you to stay and talk to me, if you don't have anything important to do."

"Vici does as Missy wishes," Vici said, as smoothly as an uneducated house elf could. The twitch of her ears told Hermione that she did, indeed, have other tasks, but didn't dare say so.

"Thank you," she said, draping her robes over the metal bar set into the wall. "If you would fill the tub, please?"

"Of course, Missy," said Vici, and the atmosphere changed again, this time becoming increasingly warm and humid.

Hermione sank into the hot bath with an undisguised groan of pleasure. After having gone so long without them, she doubted she would ever take them for granted again. The surface lapped against smooth skin, and the steam caressed her face. Vici had learned exactly how she liked her bath, which was apparently part of her job description, and her magic was such a blessing even in the small things. The water would not grow cold while Hermione was in it.

"Vici," she began with the air of someone telling a secret. "I have so much to learn." She paused, waiting for Vici to say something, but when there was only a polite silence she continued, "I mean, I don't know anything. I don't want to have to depend on Mr and Mrs Selwyn for everything, you see. They have so much to deal with already, and besides that I'm beginning to feel a bit stifled. Not that I'm ungrateful for all they've done for me! It's just that I'm old enough to do some things on my own. I want to no longer be a danger to myself."

"Missy wants learning?" Vici prodded, settling herself on a low wooden stool by the tub.

"What's going on, Vici? I'm so confused. There was tension in the Ministry for some reason I could not discern, and there's a tension here, too. I need to know what's happening in the world, because someday I'll have to go out in it and I  _ need _ to be prepared." Hermione peered over the edge of the tub, feeling tendrils of hair sticking to her face and neck. If she could force eye contact and get Vici to relax...

"Vici knows only small bit," the house elf protested, wringing the edge of her tea towel with both hands.

"That's still more than me," Hermione said. "Look at me, please."

The suddenness of the command took Vici by surprise, and her head jerked up, her eyes meeting Hermione's for just an instant. That instant was enough. As Vici was about to look down, Hermione forced her head back up with a hand on her chin.

Manipulating her mind was so  _ easy,  _ after dealing with Rhea's stubbornness and mental shields. The house elf was a simple, organized creature. Sifting through her thoughts was as effortless as skimming a book, and Hermione sat there for several moments gathering all of the information that Vici knew or thought she knew. When she was finished, she left behind a few orders. To set up a silencer on Hermione's room, for one thing.

Breaking eye contact, Hermione waited several seconds for Vici to snap out of her stupor. "I'm finished, Vici," she said.

"Of course, Missy," Vici said, a fierce determination in her eyes that hadn't been there before. Good, Hermione thought. That was exactly what she was going for.

*|II8II|*

Two weeks of intensive Hybrid Legilimency later, Hermione watched in satisfaction as an empty-eyed Rhea Selwyn took down the child-proofing spells. When she was finished, she turned to Hermione and asked, "Are you happy?"

"Very happy, Mrs Selwyn." And she was, even as exhausting as it had been getting there.

"Call me Mother, please," said Mrs Selwyn, a look of genuine adoration replacing the blankness of her eyes. Out of habit Hermione slipped into her mind and drew borders around that feeling, connecting it unambiguously to the idea of Hermione. Rhea Selwyn swooped forward and gathered Hermione into a hug. Her idea of Hermione was very different from reality. To her, Hermione was her darling, wounded, soon-to-be-adopted daughter. She deserved every happiness and every kind of protection.

"Mother..."

"Thank you, Genevieve."

*|II8II|*

It was absolutely imperative that Hermione keep up with the news. She hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to it the first time around, and look where that had put her. Hermione couldn't rely just on newspapers, however. Morfan Selwyn was a resource sent from the heavens, honestly. Since he pretended to be a weak-willed, foolish man whom his wife used as a doormat, all sorts of things were said around him.

"Tell me, please?" Hermione ordered.

Morfan told story after story, most of them entirely uninteresting- rumours of Minister Midgeon having an affair, Abraxas Malfoy donating more money to St Mungo's, and so on. Hermione stopped short as soon as she heard him say, "Sirius Black".

"The eldest Black son- Sirius, Sirius Black, about seventeen by now- was disowned. He's gone to live with the Potters, apparently."

"How long ago?"

"Er... the end of June, I believe."

"That long ago?" Hermione nearly shrieked. "Why has no one mentioned this before?" Rhea and Morfan both stared at her in concerned confusion, and Hermione sighed. "I've been looking into him as a possible husband. But if he's been disowned, then all that effort is now useless."

"Oh, Genevieve," beamed Rhea. "You're really taking your responsibilities seriously."

"Thank you, Missus, er, Mother."

"Well, I hope you have a few contingency plans," Morfan said.

"Of course I do," said Hermione, nettled. "There's... Ignatius, Fabian, or Gideon Prewett... Cornelius Fudge... Elphinstone Urquart. To name a few, anyway. That's not even mentioning those still attending Hogwarts."

Rhea frowned. "None of those are very prestigious families."

"But they're all pureblood, and that's why Black was my first choice."

"I see. Clever girl!" said Rhea, a smile back on her face. "However, I think there are many, many more eligible men at Hogwarts. How would you like to go there?"

Hermione thought about it for a moment, shoving down the instinctual fear that was now associated with the word. "I would like that," she said, slowly. And she would; she was growing bored with her tiny foster family, and she was unlikely to be taken seriously in any sort of political discussion among the adults, anyway. Not to mention, there was a huge quantity of wizards who would directly affect the second and first wars. Hiding away in the Selwyn estate would be a cowardly move.

"I'll enroll you right away," Morfan said.

"Thank you. May I please be excused?" Hermione asked. Morfan and Rhea both nodded their assent, and Hermione took her leave of the room, trying her best to calm down the heady joy of power- and the world-shattering, all-consuming terror.

*|II8II|*

September 1st came quickly, far too quickly. Hermione knew intellectually that going to Hogwarts was the best option for her, but that knowledge did little to soothe her anxiety.

"We will miss you," Rhea said, wiping away tears with a sheepish smile. "But it won't be long now, and you can come home."

"I'll miss you, too," Hermione fibbed, wrapping her arms around first Morfan's, and then Rhea's waist. "I'll make you proud of me," she said with more conviction.

"I know you will," said Morfan. "The Express is boarding, you should find a good seat."

"Yes, Father," said Hermione.

She looked back one more time at the Selwyns before continuing onto the Hogwarts Express. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked around. It had been so long since she'd been on the train. She hadn't even seen it since her sixth year in her original timeline, nearly nine years ago.

Things had been so happy then. She could almost see Neville going from compartment to compartment, searching for his wayward toad. Harry would be sulking in one of the farther compartments, trying to convince Ron that it was  _ Malfoy _ , that he was a  _ Death Eater _ . Ron would be humoring him, as he usually did. Ginny would be hexing someone, surely. Hadn't she been invited to the Slug Club for doing that?

Try as she might, Hermione couldn't imagine herself, and that disconnect allowed her feet to finally move and carry her into an empty compartment. She could feel her breathing speed up dangerously, and she shut the door behind herself. She wished that she could cast the usual wards, but she wasn't foolish enough to waste the magic that had built up. Instead, she curled up in a corner out of sight of the hallway.

It struck her later as strange and sad that she remained in just enough control of her faculties to make sure she wouldn't be found.

Head between her knees, Hermione let the fit wash over her, leaving her sobbing and pathetic in its wake. The wave crashed over her again, and again, until she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming. Not here, not here, not  _ here. _

Ron. "You don't deserve to be free."

Harry. Disappointed eyes.

Black shriveled hands... and then arms... she could do nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing...

_ Sirius. _

Dementors everywhere, taking such a special interest in her, making her relive those moments over and over. Taking her happiness away from her.

Minerva, dead in her arms and she could do  _ nothing! _

_ Sirius. He was dead, died for her. How many times would she watch him die? _

That Death Eater, so long ago, completely disintegrated. The cornerstone of her descent into depravity.

Murder. Murder after murder after murderaftermurderaftermurder and it was her fault, her wand, and she would do it again in a heartbeat but nothing was ever worth it, nothing ever worked because really wasn't she the only one who survived?

Always her. Why always her? She couldn't decide whether she really wanted to live anymore. Not if she was the only one.

Anyone who ever got close to her ended up dead, and it was  _ her fault _ , always.

The door slid open, and Hermione looked up, eyes wild and tears tracking down her face.

It was Sirius. Why was it always Sirius? He took one look at her, a girl he'd never seen before in his life, and gathered her in his arms. She didn't even think about it before curling into him, hiding her face in his robes and shaking uncontrollably. Sirius would understand. He'd been in Azkaban for twelve years, he'd lost everyone too, he would understand.

That thought calmed her down. Of course she wasn't alone. Sirius was there. Sirius would always be there, wouldn't he?

There until he died, but clearly he wasn't dead, he was right there, petting her hair and murmuring comforting words that Hermione couldn't hear.

Slowly, slowly, Hermione came back to the present and her right mind. Not that she felt she would ever be completely sane again, but her mind was no longer trapped in the cycle of self-blame and regret.

She felt her breathing stabilize and decided that the fit was over. She pulled away from Sirius and maneuvered herself into a seat, although it would have been better to get up, thank him, and leave. Unfortunately, Hermione was unsure whether her legs would support her, so that plan wouldn't work. Still, she had to be composed.

"Thank you," she said, arranging her face into a suitably blank expression. Merlin, but she was tired. These episodes always drained her energy.

Now she noticed the other three, loitering in the doorway looking completely bemused.

Sirius got off the floor gracefully and brushed himself off. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes roving over her face.

"Yes," she said, and turned to look out the window.

"Padfoot, mate?" James murmured. "What was all that? Do you know her?"

Hermione saw Sirius shrug in the reflection of the window. "I have no idea," he said, staring at the back of Hermione's head.

*|II8II|*

"Please follow me, Miss Selwyn," came Minerva's clipped tones.

Hermione smiled automatically, realizing only a few moments later that she was staring off into space. That had been happening a lot lately, though it had been more than manageable while living with the Selwyns, and Hermione felt a faint unease at how unhinged she'd become. Azkaban really took a lot out of a person. Objectively, also, Hermione had more experience than the average person did. Her good memories were great, but her bad memories were awful. It worked out just well enough that she'd managed to remain sane, but in the extended presence of so many Dementors Hermione feared that she'd lost that delicate balance.

"Miss Selwyn."

"Yes, sorry, Professor," Hermione said hastily, rising to her feet and following the woman to the stool at the front of the Great Hall. The same children had already gone through this process, but Hermione hadn't bothered to pay attention. It was the same as always, and it would be the same again.

There was an insistent buzzing that had risen in her ears. She shook her head, feeling her curls brush against her shoulders. It took her a moment to realize that the buzzing was actual a hundred voices all whispering at their tables. Hermione turned her head to look at them, and her eyes automatically went to Sirius and the others. Recognizing that her embarrassment at them having seen her break down only a few hours before would soon register on her face, she quickly looked away.

The Hat was lowered onto her head. Hermione caught a glimpse of Minerva's expression, but she wasn't sure what to make of it. Was she contemptuous, or worried, or indifferent? Hermione couldn't tell.

"Quite the busy mind you have," the Hat commented.

"That's one way to put it," Hermione mused. "Anyone else would call me mad."

"Perhaps you have reason to be mad." Hermione searched for condescension in the Hat's "voice", but found only matter-of-fact sincerity.

"I suppose I do," she said. "I'm a bit surprised that it was Azkaban that finally did it, aren't you? So much has happened." Not the time, she reminded herself. "I remember you, though. Didn't you say that I wouldn't always be in Gryffindor? I was so worried about that before, but for the life of me I can't remember why."

"There's a lot to go through, but from what I can see I was correct. You've grown, Miss Selwyn, and you aren't a Gryffindor anymore. I could put you there, of course, but would you really be able to recover if I did? Seeing the faces of your old friends every day? That isn't in your best interests."

That was easy enough to understand, and Hermione agreed. She really wouldn't be able to look at Sirius, the Sirius who'd died because of her, without hurting. And would she be able to see James anymore without seeing his son? It was best for everyone involved, and especially her, if she were Sorted somewhere else. Besides that, Hermione didn't feel particularly brave anymore. She didn't care about being strong, not as much as she used to.

"I'm glad you agree. With Gryffindor out of the way, you know where I must place you, yes?"

"Ravenclaw."

"Yes. Think about it, your values have changed. You value knowledge now. I believe this is a coping mechanism of yours, and it's one that will help you regain your equilibrium. RAVENCLAW."

Hermione lifted the Hat off of her head and handed it back to Minerva. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in all the faces. There was clapping, she noted, but it wasn't the raucous applause of Gryffindor, nor even the genuine applause of a House that was proud to receive a new member. They sound uncertain, Hermione thought, and smiled.

She sat at the table of blue and bronze, watching as the clapping stopped person by person. Albus was saying something, as he usually was. Hermione refused to look straight at him, afraid that she would see his skin turning shriveled and black. Food appeared, but Hermione wasn't particularly hungry. Before she would have taken something anyway, but this time she didn't care what impression she left. As far as she was concerned, she could be using this time to go to the Shop and read.

"Hello?"

Hermione looked up to meet the gaze of some seventh year whose name she'd forgotten. The boy flinched when she made direct eye contact, which was puzzling. She wasn't using Legilimency at all. "You've been talking for a while, haven't you?" she said aloud without meaning to.

"Er, yes. And you're pretty out there, aren't you? You would've gotten along with Xeno, but he graduated last year." The boy cracked a smile, but Hermione knew better than to think it was friendly or welcoming. He was leaning back slightly, and was looking anywhere but at her face. To avoid meeting her eyes again, perhaps.

Xeno, Xeno... Hermione wracked her brain, trying to place the name to a face. It sounded familiar. He clearly came off as insane, but not in the way that the Blacks did. Xeno... "Xenophilius Lovegood?" she asked, his face immediately coming to mind. His daughter's came shortly after, and Hermione winced. She didn't want to think about Luna. Why dredge up old wounds? That was the last thing she needed.

"Yeah, him. Do you know him?" What was the boy's name? Did it really matter?

"I've heard of him. I don't know him personally, I'm afraid." Somehow, the lie made her feel better. More in control. The fuzzy cloud in her brain thinned out, closer to what it had been before she'd decided to come here.

She could handle this.  _ Obviously  _ she could handle this. Her mind would not be her master.

  
  



	5. Bonded Ally

Ravenclaw Tower was, in a word, breathtaking. As pretty as the windows and furniture were, Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the _books_ , not that she would ever want to.

"There's almost as many books in here as in the main Library," the Head Girl said, addressing the starstruck first years.

How had she missed this gold mine? How had she not heard about this from anyone? Knowing the Ravenclaws from her time, they wouldn't have wasted a single moment bragging about their own private library.

Hermione followed the Head Girl to the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories. Even the steps were blue and bronze. That was the last conscious thought she had before waking up in an unfamiliar bed in the morning to a crack of thunder outside her window. The other girls slept through it with barely a twitch among them, and Hermione grimaced.

The dorm in Ravenclaw Tower felt wrong, in a subtle but inarguable way. It was dark, but Hermione could still _feel_ how off it was. She slipped to the floor, accepting the cool shock of the stone against her bare feet, and left without a backwards glance.

Her reasoning from the beginning of the year before was still valid, and certainly even more so now. She couldn't survive the year sleeping in the same room as four other girls, not with her nightmares and her frequent departures. It was insupportable. Her own safety was a priority, yes, but even more so was the safety of the students here. She was protecting them, wasn't she? It would defeat the purpose entirely if she were to hurt someone while having an episode.

Only faint candlelight excused Hermione's sight, allowing her at least to avoid suits of armour and the like. She was unsure just where she was going. Down, sure, but not to Hogsmeade. The kitchens, perhaps. She was remarkably hungry, having eaten only sparingly at the Welcoming Feast the night before. Still, that didn't sound like the right answer. The Room of Requirement, perhaps. Sure, it was the logical choice. Safe within the confines of her semi-secret haven, she would have the freedom to do as she pleased, whether that was to cry or to sleep or to read.

The Room of Requirement, she decided, noting with no surprise that she stood in front of the Fat Lady.

"Not tonight," she said aloud. "There's no reason to go inside."

Maybe that wasn't quite true. More likely she had her own, personal reasons. As tempting as they were, Hermione could not- would not- concede to those urges. It would be the satisfying choice, but not the right one.

The Room of Requirement was a poor substitute for the companionship of the friends she'd once had, but it would have to do.

This time she carried her feet rather than the other way around. To the seventh floor, past the tapestry, three paces in the hall, and to the door. A bed confronted her upon her entry. It looked disappointed in her. She would not lay in it.

A blink later the bed was gone, replaced by a single stool. It wasn't any better; it was painted with pink flowers, and if Hermione squinted she could make out kittens.

"Are you mocking me?" she asked, sitting on the floor and beginning to cry.

Upon opening her eyes, the room had changed again. This time, rather than judgmental furniture, a confused and groggy Sirius Black lay sprawled across the floor.

What had she done? "I need him gone," she said, but he did not disappear.

"Selwyn? 'S that you?"

Hermione wished she didn't love him. She wished the sound of his voice didn't fill her with such tenderness. But both of those things were true, and Hermione would have to live with the choice she'd unwittingly made.

"Yes, Sirius Black. It's me." There she was, whispering for fear that her voice would break this spell and send him away again. "Tell me, Sirius Black- is love a choice?"

"If you don't mind," Sirius said, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the floor, "I'd rather know just where I am. And why I'm here. And why you're here."

"Of course you would," Hermione murmured. She would not lie to him. She'd lied to him enough. "I know why I'm here. I chose to come here. But the Room summoned you. I know not why."

"'I know not why'? Are you on dust or something?" Sirius didn't seem afraid of her, which was good. Very good, even. Still, he looked concerned and even a little disgusted. Perhaps that was all right. Less personal than fear, after all.

She really should keep her distance, but instead she asked again, "Is love a choice?"

"No," he said. "Why would it be?"

"Why wouldn't it be? It's a choice to become angry, or sad, or happy, right?"

"No?" said Sirius, leaning away in what was likely a subconscious gesture of discomfort. Why shouldn't he be uncomfortable? Hermione certainly was.

"Of course it is," said Hermione, frowning. "Of course, there's an urge one way or the other, but ultimately you make the choice to feel emotion. Ignore the urge and it goes away."

"Is that how feelings work for you? Because I don't think that's normal."

Maybe he was trying to be cruel. It was unlike Sirius to be so willfully tactless. "I could _choose_ to be upset by your insinuation, but I've _chosen_ not to," Hermione said. And it was true; she wasn't upset in the slightest. "That is the way emotions work. Could it be that you simply give in to your impulses, no matter what? It would suit your character."

"What do you know about 'my character'?" Sirius scoffed. "You don't know me."

Oh, that's right. She wasn't supposed to know him at all. She could not lie and agree with him, but nor could she correct him. Instead she ignored it altogether. "Love is a choice. It's attraction that is not. Your mind molds to your wishes, not the other way around."

"Whatever," said Sirius, perhaps wisely quitting while he was ahead. "You think what you want."

"Mm," Hermione agreed, smiling. The Room had been right; Sirius was exactly what she needed. She did love him, after all, and that meant that his mere presence made her heart slow and her mind clear. She felt in control of herself when he was around.

"Why did you bring me here?" Sirius asked again.

"I didn't mean to, necessarily. Magic will be what it is, though, and needs will trump wants as far as it's concerned."

"That makes... no sense whatsoever. None."

"I didn't want it to." There were tears on her face still, she realized. She wiped them away. A wave of disgust washed over her at how soft her hand felt against her cheek. "This room is dangerous, though it doesn't seem that way at first. It obeys the _needs_ of the person inside of it. But _need_ doesn't necessarily follow the definition of the word. It obeys strong emotions. Whether or not logic decides that it's a bad idea, as the person who activated this particular room, it will give me what I require."

"What- really?" said Sirius. "That's awfully handy."

"It can be," Hermione agreed.

"But then why am I here?" he asked, suspicion clouding his face again.

"I did say that the room is dangerous. It is especially so for people like me."

"Like you?"

"The brain... the mind is altered by trauma. It often requires things that aren't good for it, perhaps because the well-being of the mind becomes somehow less important."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It was as close as I'm willing to tell you. I will not lie to you, but that doesn't mean I must say everything."

Sirius scowled, but said nothing more.

Hermione couldn't stop looking at him. He didn't know her. He didn't care about her. He didn't know what she'd done, what he'd done. As far as he was concerned, they'd never met.

She was nothing to him.

"I need you to leave," she said, softly. "I need you to know me like I know you, but that can't happen, so please just go." Hermione obeyed the ice in her gut and turned away. She would sleep on the floor.

A pile of pillows and blankets appeared in the corner, and without looking she knew that Sirius was gone.

*|II8II|*

Only the threat of detention forced Hermione to attend class that first week. Hermione had always _needed_ a challenge. It was as vital to her as the need for basic companionship and love- even surpassing those at times. History of Magic couldn't possibly challenge her, not when it was taught by a ghost who recycled his material verbatim every year.

So when Saturday came, wet and bleak as it had been every cycle before, Hermione took herself down to Hogsmeade before she could talk herself out of it.

Keane greeted her as if she hadn't been missing for over a year. That was fine; he had little concept of time. "She's been waiting for you," he said, and Hermione nodded.

"Will you come with me?" Hermione asked the fledgling phoenix who refused to look at her. "You don't have to; of course you don't. I'm not very good company these days. But I love you, and I'd be happy if you did."

The silence stretched, but Hermione waited. She knew Echo could feel exactly what was going on inside her head, why she hadn't come to get her before now. Echo was the only being who'd ever loved her unconditionally, the purest creature she knew, and after Azkaban Hermione couldn't be sure that she could provide a good environment for Echo. They were _bonded_ , for Merlin's sake. At least within the Shop Hermione knew that Echo would be safe, both from the outside world and from Hermione.

Hermione didn't need a two-way empathic bond to know that Echo wasn't happy with her decisions. It was a good thing Echo was so easy to read, because the bond indeed only went one way.

"I'm not exactly... logical... these last few months," she said, aware that she was pleading now- not for Echo to come with her again, but to forgive her. To love her.

Echo finally met her gaze and cooed, but she looked wary still. She did not come forward, and Hermione understood that Echo would not follow her.

Hermione wanted to cry, but that wouldn't be fair to Echo. She knew her companion well enough to know that she was making a difficult choice, and Hermione refused to manipulate her into changing her mind. "I will not abandon you," she whispered. "I'll come here like I did before. If you don't want to see me, you can stay in another room. But if you do... If you do, I'm here."

But for now, Hermione couldn't stay and pretend nothing was wrong. She wouldn't be able to concentrate on research when her friend, her _child_ , did not forgive her.

Keane let her go and said nothing.

As apparently Hermione was on a masochistic mission to "reunite" with old friends, her next stop was the Hog's Head.

The walk was inclement and unpleasant. The rain became intimate with the threads of her robes, and Hermione was powerless to stop it. It took mere moments for her hair to hang like chained prisoners down her back and cling desperately to her face and neck. She couldn't help but pity herself, and her saltwater tears hid between raindrops. Witches and wizards passed her, sneering at her soaked person. They assumed, correctly, that she hadn't enough magic to protect herself from the weather.

The Hog's Head, compared to the streets outside, was cozy, even though Hermione knew that it would be nearly intolerable without the contrast. Hermione took a seat in a two-person booth in the corner. She removed her cloak and folded over her forearms, cradling it to her chest. She missed Echo.

If Aberforth weren't distracted up at the counter, Hermione knew he would come over and demand that she either buy something or get out. She had no intention of that being his "first" impression of her.

How pathetic was she? There she was, a solitary figure in the grimy pub that was once her home, pining after relationships that were _gone_ , forgotten by everyone but her. Why was she chasing after things she couldn't have? Was she really such a martyr? Even if she could create relationships anew, it would never be the same. She could never have it again. She wasn't even the same person as before! What could she offer, really? She wasn't even _sane_ anymore, dammit! She needed to get better, not worse, and trying to resuscitate the past would only drive her further over the edge.

Now crying in earnest, Hermione got up and slunk out of the pub.

Where could she go? Where could she call home? "Vici?" she choked out. "Vici, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Missy," said the house elf. "Is Missy all right?"

"Please take me home," she sobbed.

Vici took her hand with a greater tenderness than ever before, cooing reassurances over the noisy assault of the rain, and they disappeared together.

Hermione could feel without looking that she was now in her bedroom in the Selwyn Estate. Her robes were dry and warm, her hair once again a frizzy mess around her face, but her misery didn't subside. "Please help me," she whispered, unsure even as she asked how anyone could help her. "Please, please help me."

Later Hermione wondered whether Vici had ever dealt with hysterical persons before, as without hesitation she guided Hermione to the bed and made her sit. "It is all right, Missy," she soothed, holding her hands and stroking them with tiny thumbs. "If Missy need talking, Vici listen."

"Promise you'll tell no one? Not even Rhea?" Hermione begged.

"Vici promises."

"I'm alone here," Hermione said, hardly aware of what she was saying. All she knew was that she had to say _something_ . "I'm alone and insane and I don't know what I'm doing and there's not enough time and too much to mess up and no one to help me and I just want to lay down and sleep forever but I can't _do_ that and my magic is gone and I'm an awful person now because I manipulate everyone and it would be so much easier if I didn't know anyone but I _do!_ "

"Missy has a home here," insisted Vici, somehow understanding Hermione's jumble of words and emotions. "Vici will protect Missy. Always, no matter what."

Even knowing that Vici believed a lie, Hermione swept up the tiny house elf and hugged her to her chest like she used to do with Echo. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Vici held Hermione until her breathing stabilized. Hermione was exhausted but no longer hysterical, and she told Vici so.

"Would Missy like cocoa?" Vici asked.

"Yes, please," Hermione croaked. "But please, please, don't leave me alone."

The house elf took her by the hand again and Apparated them both to the kitchen. Other house elves bustled around, hardly even noticing Hermione's arrival. Vici snapped her fingers and a stool came into existence besides one of the stoves. "Missy may sit there," she said, and Hermione took her suggestion.

Vici snapped her fingers again, Summoning a bar of Honeyduke's chocolate, a bottle of milk, and a saucepan. Hermione watched, fascinated, as Vici set the pan down on the stove (which had apparently been lit while she wasn't looking) and broke apart the bar of chocolate into bite-sized pieces. A wave of her hand lowered the pieces into the pan, and another wave made the flames turn blue and the chocolate melted rapidly. The chocolate should have burned, but it did not, and soon the saucepan had a rich layer of melted chocolate at the bottom.

While Hermione had been watching the chocolate, Vici had apparently Summoned nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, and chili powder. She shook careful amounts into the now-swirling chocolate.

"Chili powder?" Hermione asked.

"It brings out the other flavours, gives them a contrast," Vici explained.

Once all of the spices were thoroughly assimilated into the heavenly concoction, Vici tipped in the milk. Instead of sticking to the sides of the saucepan, it blended with the mixture cleanly. Magic was a wonderful thing.

Vici poured the cocoa into a mug with a mossy exterior and set three marshmallows onto the surface. She pressed the warm mug into Hermione's hands and Hermione took a moment to feel the tangible comfort against her skin. The mug was like a soft blanket, something that could never have been accomplished without magic. She sipped the cocoa with something approaching reverence, and it washed over her tongue and down her throat. It tasted like home. It tasted like love.

"Why does Missy cry again?" Vici asked, wiping at Hermione's face.

"This is happiness," said Hermione, smiling.

Vici's face crinkled in her own smile, and they stayed like that for several moments. "Is Missy feeling better?" she asked.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, thank you."

"Missy is welcome."

Hermione stayed at Selwyn Estate until Monday, when she conceded that if she stayed away any longer she would have to answer some uncomfortable questions. Vici took her back to her dormitory and spelled her bed to be Silenced and to repel the attentions of anyone who wasn't Hermione. At Hermione's request, she even set a low-level Notice-Me-Not on Hermione herself. She left Hermione there with gentle assurances that Hermione could handle it, and for at least that moment Hermione believed it.

She went down to the Great Hall with a new serenity. For once she was completely ignored, and the knot in Hermione's gut unraveled just a bit.

The whole day went like that. No one asked where she'd been. No one asked her anything at all, actually, which suited Hermione just fine. Over the course of the day Hermione felt herself relax more and more, until she felt comfortable enough to read out in the Common Room after dinner. She was entirely unmolested and it was even moderately quiet. For the first time Hermione felt that she could possibly belong there.

After dinner on Wednesday Hermione kept her promise to Echo and made an appearance at the Shop. The whole way there Hermione prepared herself for disappointment, but she quickly found that her efforts were useless. Echo studiously ignored her, and Keane wasn't any more eager to talk to her. She sequestered herself in the room full of books about magical bonds, trying unsuccessfully to convince herself that she could manage just fine.

It became a routine to have Vici take her home for the weekend. Hermione wasn't sure just when or why the Selwyn Estate became her home; perhaps it was because she didn't have any memories from before to associate with it.

Vici had already been "assigned" to Hermione's care, so it took hardly any effort at all to convince Rhea and Morfan not only to make Vici her personal elf, but to forfeit ownership of her altogether. Vici took it surprisingly well, with none of the theatrics that Hermione was expecting.

"Pleasure to serve you, Mistress," Vici said, curtsying.

"Call me Hermione," she said, curtsying back. "You are my equal now, and my friend, as much as you're comfortable being." It didn't even cross her mind that Vici had never known Hermione by her true name, but Vici took it in stride.

"As Mistress... Her-my-uh-knee... wishes."

"Where do you want to stay? At Selwyn Estate or... or with me?" She was genuinely offering Vici a choice, the first of many.

"With Herm- Hermy-"

"'You'," said Hermione gently. "'With you.'"

"With you," Vici said nervously. Her ears twitched back and forth.

Hermione smiled. "I'll never punish you, Vici," she swore. "Never, for anything. I'm not lying when I say that you're my equal now. I know it'll take some getting used to, but this is the closest I can get to setting you free without hurting you."

Unlike other house elves she'd met, Vici took her words in the spirit in which they were meant. "Thank you, Hermy. Would you like Vici to call you Veva in company?"

"Oh!" Hermione cried, smacking her forehead. "Yes, thank you, I'd completely forgotten. I'd planned on telling you the truth anyway."

"The truth, Hermy?"

"It goes without saying that you must never mention anything about this to anyone except for me. Can you promise me that?"

"Of course."

Hermione thought for a moment, trying to organize her story in the least emotional way possible. "Well, I'm from the future. A Dark Lord managed to take over, and somehow I was sent here. My mission now is to stop him from rising to power, but I have exactly a year to do so. At the end of the year I'm sent back to the beginning again, and no one has any memory of me or what I've done. I've done this twice so far. The first time I accidentally started a battle at Hogwarts, and the second time I got myself thrown in Azkaban. I'm still trying to regain my sanity from that. My real name is Hermione Granger."

Without a word, Vici slipped her hand into Hermione's, squeezed it, and smiled. She understood. She truly understood.

Hermione smiled back, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Can you help keep me safe from myself?" she whispered, realizing that that was the question she'd wanted to ask this whole time.

"Yes, Hermy. Vici will keep you safe." Their joined hands glowed a colorless warmth, the distinctive un-color of a vow. "No matter what."

 


	6. Variegated Vectors

**** For several weeks after that informal vow, Vici accompanied her everywhere. At Hermione's request, Vici maintained her own low-level Notice-Me-Not, and the pair of them essentially did as they pleased. During classes, Hermione kept up a running commentary explaining everything and teaching Vici how to read. It was the most useful Hermione had felt in a long time.

As a happy result of Vici's magic, Hermione was never subjected to the same treatment that Luna had endured during her time at Hogwarts, even though Hermione was at this point every bit as odd as Luna had been, if not more so.

("Perhaps talking about your friends will help you get better," Vici suggested. Hermione could see the logic in that. Indeed, it no longer hurt her just to think their names.)

The Notice-Me-Not, while sparing Hermione from most of the attention of students and staff alike, was not infallible. Dumbledore, with his irritating ability to see magic, was nigh on immune, and the fact that Hermione- and Vici, now- bothered with a Notice-Me-Not at all drew his focus. Not that he approached her with any questions, not so soon, but Hermione knew beyond a doubt that he was watching her.

She could live with that, for the time being.

Vici, while a lovely companion, could only slow the spread of loneliness. She hated seeing Sirius and Lily every day, perfectly happy without her there. She wouldn't have wanted anyone else from Gryffindor or Ravenclaw to notice her, anyway, and she couldn't even look at the Hufflepuffs without wanting to cry. That left only one House: Slytherin.

Of course, she'd halfheartedly tried to become friendly with a few, select Slytherins during her first year. Regulus had made it clear that he didn't trust her, being a Gryffindor Mudblood who was friends with the brother who hated him. Hermione could understand that, but now she was none of those things. That didn't guarantee that he would accept her attempts to befriend him, but it did increase the chances.

And Severus Snape. Still hurting from losing Lily, well on his way to becoming a Death Eater. She'd given up on him before, as much as she didn't like admitting it to herself. She'd left the Severus of that timeline to his fate, having unwittingly accelerated Voldemort's rise to power. Hermione could change that. She could. She was no better than he'd ever been, much less this teenage version of him.

If she was no better than Severus, who was to say he and Regulus were the only ones worth saving? What about the low-level Death Eaters? Gods, they were all so young. Who was she to say that any of them were beyond hope?

Few of them would respond to straight kindness, and she didn't know if she was capable of giving that, anyway. Ultimately, most became Death Eaters for their own sake or their families'. Just being nice could hardly change that. What she had to do was convince them that Voldemort would lead them to the deaths of their family lines. It wouldn't be a lie. The Malfoys and the Blacks, for example, were completely extinct in her time. The Princes, naturally. The Flints, the Carrows, the Lestranges, not to mention the neutral or Light houses. Voldemort would bring the demise of the Wizarding world, purity and all.

It would be easy enough to convince them- if she could get them to believe that she was a Seer. She did have... intimate knowledge of the future. But what could she say? "Oh, Sev, you die on May 2nd, 1998, of a snake bite after one of your masters believes that since you killed your other master, the fabled Elder Wand belonged to you. He was wrong, by the way, so it was kind of pointless." Even if telling them how and when they would die would be sure to make them believe her, her goal wasn't to scar them for life.

There was little point in being subtle.

While she may not have had direct access to Regulus, she did have several classes with Severus. Ravenclaws and Slytherins were often paired in classes, just as Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were. Even though the Seelie and Unseelie courts were long disbanded in the West, inter-House tensions were passed down through blood. It was the easy answer for why Gryffindors and Slytherins especially hated one another, but not the entirely correct one.

"Severus Snape," said Hermione, turning to face the boy. His hair hung in a greasy sheet around his face, blocking her view. At the sound of his name she saw him twitch, but did not acknowledge her. She went on. "Son of Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape. Self-styled 'the Halfblood Prince'. Childhood friend of Lily Ev-"

"That's enough," said Snape, gripping his quill so hard it snapped.

"Childhood friend of Lily Evans. Particular enemy of James Potter and Sirius Black. Future follower of the Dark Lord. Future spy for Albus Dumbledore. The man responsible for the murders of James and Lily Potter."

"You're lying." He revealed his face, finally, glaring up at her.

"All I speak of is true, but it doesn't have to be."

"You're saying I can change it," Severus sneered.

"I am. The solution is easy: do not follow the Dark Lord. He leads you, your allies, and your godson to an early death." For Draco, a very early death.

He must have seen the sorrow that she hadn't quite managed to hide, and his eyebrows bunched together. The expression made him look fierce, but Hermione knew better. "How early?"

Hermione shook her head. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"No," said Severus, and that admission made her respect him just a bit more. It took maturity to think ahead and realize that he might not be strong enough to go forth to his death.

"I will say only that without the Dark Lord, you would likely live to be as old as Dumbledore."

"Are you a Seer?"

"Yes, after a fashion," Hermione said, the corner of her mouth twitching. Subtlety was, indeed, pointless.

He didn't look entirely convinced, but that was fine. He would watch her now, and listen to what she said, even if he wouldn't admit it for a while.

*|II8II|*

Even with the help of Vici's alterations to Hermione's bed, it didn't take very long before sleeping once again became impossible. Once again she padded down to the seventh floor and trapped herself within the Room of Requirement. She needed a cot, like the one she'd slept on in Azkaban. Beds were beginning to feel too comfortable, decadent, even. A cot, and a blanket, in a room only big enough to admit one person.

It would be her hiding place, even from herself. It was what she needed.

She wished that Echo was there, but until she came of her own volition Hermione wouldn't force the issue. She did miss her.

She'd been visiting the Shop on her good days. Keane ignored her most of the time, and Echo pretended to follow his example. Hermione sometimes caught Echo creeping around, and then she would have to leave so she could cry.

Still, things had been worse. When Minerva died, for example.

At the mere thought of her name, Hermione burst into tears, and the Room rocked her to sleep. There was still progress to be made on that front.

In the morning, Hermione woke up an hour too early for breakfast. She used the extra time to come up with a plan- or, rather, a non-plan.

Upon entering the Great Hall, Hermione made a beeline for the Slytherin table, sliding in directly across from Severus. "Good morning," she said, channeling her inner Trelawney.

"Morning," said Severus. At least, she thought that was what he said. He clutched a steaming mug of tea between pale spider-leg fingers, and dark circles pressed like bruises under his eyes. He didn't look up at her.

"What a lovely day to just focus on being children, yes?" She glanced up and down the table, but nothing appealed to her. She served herself some porridge anyway.

Severus mumbled something that could have been "Sure" and could have been "Bugger off".

"I've been wondering about superiority complexes," Hermione said, trying to find levity and failing, "and their inevitability. An undisciplined mind will naturally divide the world into insiders and outsiders, and most will then furthermore decide that the outsiders are somehow of lesser value than the insiders."

He still didn't look up, and Hermione suspected he was hearing very little of her monologue. She went on anyway.

"With a bit of work and discipline, those prejudices can be tucked down where they belong." Hermione paused. "I would say that the whole problem may be solved by blurring that line, but I'm quite certain that people like James Potter wouldn't even want to understand why, say, Lucius Malfoy does what he does. The world is yet simple to him and people like him."

At the sound of James's name Severus finally looked alive, and his face twisted for just a moment before he controlled himself.

"It's hard to tell for certain whether the reverse would work, either. Ultimately, there's no foolproof way to force someone to understand something when they don't want to." The porridge tasted like sludge in her mouth. She added cinnamon.

"Why are you telling me this? You have to be aware that everyone within earshot is listening to you," Severus said, sipping his tea.

Hermione smiled. "Of course I am," she said, deciding not to tell him about the Notice-Me-Not. "It's a message for anyone who will hear it. I can't have respect for those unwilling to improve themselves. You're- we're young yet. There's still time. Not much, in some of our cases, but I hope to change that."

"You're mad," Severus said, less of an accusation and more of an amused observation.

"If I am, I have reason to be," Hermione said cheerfully.

"That's not very reassuring," Severus said.

"On the contrary!" Hermione said. "It's far more comforting to know that it's the things I've seen that drove me loopy instead of some early onset chemical imbalance."

"Is it your intention to announce to the world what you are?"

"Hm, not exactly. I wouldn't be pleased to find out that the very people I'm trying to save have gone and reported me to their master. I'm entirely capable of disappearing, you know. It's not my loss if the future doesn't change. Did you know that in little more than twenty years from now the pureblood population will have been cut down by over half? He doesn't actually care about blood purity, it's just a ready-made launch for his career."

Severus was beginning to look uneasy. "You could get killed for saying these things," he said.

"I could, yes," Hermione agreed. "It's time to get to class. Would you care to escort me?"

"Do I have a choice?" he grumbled, standing and sliding his bag onto his shoulder.

"Not really," Hermione chuckled. As far as he knew, this was a political choice only further complicated by the fact that she was a Pureblood lady. There was no right answer. She couldn't bring herself to feel guilty for it, since the choice was an illusion. No one noticed their conversation or that they were even leaving, save perhaps Albus.

"You find this amusing," said Severus, glowering. "You do know that there will be social repercussions, yes?"

"Of course I do. Come, it's time for Herbology. And no, before you ask, I don't know what possessed them to schedule that so early in the day." She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, refusing to allow him to distance himself from her.

He more than made up for it with his stony expression. "I hadn't planned on asking you anything." The implication that she was both stupid and insane didn't escape Hermione, but she allowed it. After all, the boy was under some stress.

Herbology was both chilly and boring, for there was little practical application and Hermione already knew everything she could possibly find out about the flora that Pomona- Professor Sprout- meant to introduce to the class. Malefic Spores- what a joke.

Every class was becoming boring, as much as Hermione tried to ignore it. Even Arithmancy was becoming redundant, though she still took pleasure from discussing it with Professor Regent.

It was possible, by now, that Hermione knew enough about Arithmancy to apply it to her situation. A time-consuming, complicated project it would be, but could hardly do anything but ultimately assist her. And if she had so much free time, so little of her brain engaged-

Yes, that was it. She would throw herself into studying Arithmancy, for probability would be her strongest ally. Hadn't she already been wishing she could map out the consequences of her actions? She'd never read into such an encompassing project as this, but surely there would be documentation.

Had Albus taken advantage of this resource during the Second War? Surely he couldn't have, if things had gone so horribly wrong. Even taking hindsight bias into account, he couldn't have possibly thought that the probability of the Light winning was strong. Every examination proved that it was a coin toss at the very best.

A coin toss. There were timelines out there where the Light had won. Where Harry and Ron lived. Perhaps where everyone had lived. It was a comforting thought, to know that perhaps not so much rode on her success. The fate of a few timelines, yes, but in the grand scheme of things?

No, she couldn't think like that. It would be too easy to convince herself then that nothing mattered. That none of Voldemort's depravity mattered, that none of Harry's tragedies mattered, just because there were other timelines where they didn't exist. Hermione had to work for the wellbeing of every timeline she touched, she had to.

Harry would grow up in a happier future, because she loved him most of everyone. He deserved it.

Professor Regent was a valuable resource, as it turned out. She could recommend books, even books which the Library at Hogwarts didn't carry, and Hermione would go to the Shop and read them there. This new goal gave her the will to focus less on the emotional pain of her estrangement from Echo, and from Sirius and Lily. It helped.

It started with determining her own path, including her past and ignoring (for now) the future. It took no little effort not only to work out the equations, but to accurately plot them to create her path. Sure, there were spells which could plot it independently of her influence, but she was unwilling to rely on such things. She had to understand what was going on, as thoroughly as possible, before using anything automatic.

Her line was, fittingly, a charcoal grey. How glamorous.

The next line was Voldemort, and his line was jet black. She had to rely on every bit of information she remember, as even small details drastically changed his line direction.

The Horcruxes were far easier to plot, being based on a pre-existing line and having little autonomy. With every Horcrux she added, Voldemort's main line became more and more diluted until it was thin, barely even visible. That just wouldn't do. It was Voldemort himself, not his Diary, who was a true threat. Short of manipulating the line itself, which Hermione could be sure wouldn't go well, she could only attempt to make it more distinct. It would make more sense to work in three dimensions, anyway, and as a key player a bit of luminescence wouldn't go amiss.

After accounting for herself and Voldemort, Hermione was at a loss as to the next step. Harry was important, yes, but he wouldn't even exist during the year Hermione was confined to. He could have no influence. Hell, the prophecy hadn't been spoken yet. James and Lily hadn't defied Voldemort even once yet, much less thrice.

His birth was important, she acknowledged, but she would calculate that as an event, not a path.

That answered her question. James, Remus, Sirius, Peter, and Lily were all hopelessly tangled this conflict. She knew the most about them, anyway, and the paths would be more accurate knowing their past choices. These five lines took weeks to calculate and plot and revise and calculate again.

Every line was assigned a variable and a numerical value. With those in place Hermione had to re-work the previous equations.

Fine, perhaps she wouldn't do the whole project manually. Just the main players, and then the minor players and events could be automatically plotted and their variables worked into the other equations. Of course, she would have to calculate everything herself, as every Arithmancer had to do.

It took yet another week to compile and learn these spells, but the end result was worth it.

Seven lines, so far: Sirius was a deep maroon, James was a dark gold, Peter was a sickly sort of green, Remus was a navy blue, and Lily was a pastel blue, in addition to Hermione's grey and Voldemort's black. The lines twisted into one another and pulled away, sometimes passing through an un-plotted event and changing direction. In the three-dimensional work space there was so much empty space, and as of yet no purpose.

Albus and Aberforth came next, and Albus was a pale yellow to Aberforth's dark yellow.

The next few weeks saw the inclusion of Severus (brilliant violet), Regulus (mahogany), Minerva (red-orange), Bellatrix (dark green), Narcissa (sea green), and Lucius (pale orange). These complete, Hermione began working on events. They were polygons of varying size, depending on how many paths were affected.

By the beginning of December, she had a rough diagram of the entire situation, but she didn't just sit back and theorize for months. It was obvious from the beginning that her influence was necessary- especially when it came to the Slytherins.

She would have to take his army from him. With his followers would go his power.

The way to do that had been apparent even at the beginning of the cycle- appeal to their sense of preservation. Preservation of self, of family, of ideals, all of the things that Voldemort used against them to spur them into action. She would take those with some doubt already and convert them, and they would help her spread her ideas. She would allow them to believe that she was a Seer.

As was her habit, she made a list, cataloging each Slytherin by future importance, current influence, personal conviction, and pliability.

Hermione was already working on Severus, as his future importance was nearly unparalleled. The next step, however, was to convert someone who was close to Severus, had reason to doubt Voldemort's cause, and would be willing to listen to her. The answer was easy: Regulus Black. Ally of Severus, brother of Sirius Black, and not socially assertive.

"You're worried about your brother," Hermione said, bending over and resting her elbows on the table across from him. He sat alone,  _ A Potioneer's Companion _ open before him.

He said nothing, only staring up at her with an expression battling between bemusement, suspicion, curiosity, and irritation.

"It's a sensitive spot for you. It's easiest to get your attention that way," Hermione explained. When no response came, she continued, "You help bring down the Dark Lord, a day that comes too soon. Ultimately you only end up making actually destroying him more difficult for those who might actually succeed. You mean well, naturally, but in the end you die in vain."

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Regulus asked, some measure of discomfort evident in his body language.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, sinking down so that her chin rested on her hands. "It isn't funny. Ironic, yes, but not funny."

"How could you know this? And why would you tell me? How do I know that it's true, anyway?"

"Regulus Black, why do  _ you _ think my family was targeted this summer?" With that, Hermione smiled and stood, walking away.

He would need less of a hands-on approach than Severus, for he was by nature less cynical than his older friend. She only had to provide him with clues and he would come to his own conclusions. He was a clever boy.

She allowed several days before approaching him again. "You've spoken to Severus," she said.

"I have," said Regulus, closing his textbook but bookmarking it with his ring finger. It was  _ An Understanding of Mind-Altering Potions  _ this time.

Hermione smiled. "I'd hoped you would. I believe you both could help one another... marinate these ideas. What are your thoughts?"

"Snape thinks that you're a Seer," he said. "By his account, you've mentioned some things to him that you should have no way of knowing." The look on his face told her that he didn't know what these "things" were, and he was struggling not to let his curiosity eat him alive.

Hermione hadn't stopped plying Severus with her words and company. She'd spoken at him at length, citing his childhood abuse as a factor of his present and future behavior. He'd, predictably, been furious. He clearly wasn't comfortable with anyone knowing his secrets, and perhaps especially not her.

"I asked for  _ your _ thoughts, Regulus Black," Hermione said. She traced the grain of the wooden table with her fingernail, peering into Regulus's eyes. They were exactly the same shade as Sirius's, and she didn't want to explore her feelings about that.

Regulus met her gaze unflinchingly, though the slight crease of his brow spoke the truth. "I agree with him, for now," he said. "He tells me that you've claimed the future to be changeable."

"I'm glad he mentioned that," said Hermione. "You don't have to die the way you do. In fact, I fully plan on preventing that."

"Why?" It was a word which said so many things, one of those things being a plain inability to understand what her motive was, why she would care if he died. It was a word which spoke of the deaths he'd witnessed, his understanding that he would die nameless in the end. He wouldn't believe altruism of her. Perhaps he wouldn't believe it of anyone.

"As good as your intentions will be, you do end up being a nuisance. Your actions are a roadblock to my ultimate goal, and my job is to clear the way as much as possible. It just so happens that you live longer as a result."

"You didn't lie to me," Regulus remarked, clearly surprised.

She laughed at that. "I have no need nor desire to spare your feelings. Candor is the most efficient option. If you would be more easily swayed by a lie, I would tell you one."

"Another honest answer," said Regulus, smiling himself.

Hermione hummed her agreement, but her patience was wearing thin. There was so little of it, these days, when it came to people. She forgot to say goodbye as she stood and floated out of the room, thinking of her Arithmancy.

  
  



	7. Moral Decline

**** Almost from the start, Hermione had made peace with the certainty that this year wouldn't be her last. Searching for Horcruxes, therefore, would be a waste of both time and energy.

Still, she felt guilty. This timeline would be hardly enriched by her presence, even if she was pushing some of the Slytherins towards a Lighter path. If she wasn't going to go all out and try to defeat Voldemort, then she had to admit to herself the truth of what she was doing: experimenting. Seeing exactly how much certain players affected the future. Tossing them in the direction of the correct choice but not warning them of the dangers, nor giving them anything with which to protect themselves.

How long could she go on telling herself that she was the hero of this story?

"I wonder what it is that makes an action 'good'," Hermione said, pushing Severus's book closed. She would not be ignored.

Severus glared at her hand and then up at her face. "There's no rigid answer," he said.

Hermione huffed, glaring back without Severus's genuine irritation. "Of course not. I'm not daft, you know. But there must be some kind of loose definition, or else no one could have morals at all."

"An action that prevents harm from coming to someone else is a 'good' action," Severus said when it became clear that Hermione wasn't going to let it go.

"I thought so at first, too, but what if that action causes harm to someone else? What then?"

"Why are you treating  _ me  _ as the authority on morality?" Severus grumbled.

She giggled. "Well, I'm certainly not one! That's why I'm asking."

"I don't know," said Severus. "Is that what you want to hear? Questions of good and evil can be and have been argued since we knew of the concept. No answer is completely satisfying, for often there is no completely good choice."

"That does make me feel better," said Hermione. "I suppose that works."

Having convinced herself that her actions were excusable, Hermione moved on.

The next step was to wait. She dropped hints to the others, took down the Notice-Me-Not, and practiced her Hybrid Legilimency. It didn't take long for some of the Slytherins to seek her out.

She felt powerful, and she wasn't sure exactly how comfortable she was with that.

As much as she could be at that point in time, she was happy. Her every waking moment was occupied by numerology and equations, gathering data and learning how to organize it into something executable. The diagram was really beginning to take shape.

Content. She was content. She only had to work on the project and theorize, and everything would be fine.

Christmas Vacation came, and Hermione had Vici take her back to Selwyn Estate. At Hermione's request, Morfan spilled every little piece of information he'd learned over the past few months. Rhea stayed out of her way unless it was at meals. For her part, she spent her time studying, even though the end of the two weeks showed little marked progress.

Hermione didn't take the Express back to Hogwarts, either.

By the end of March, she found the bulk of the work complete. The diagram included every person and event that she could recall related even peripherally to Voldemort's rise and fall.

Her next move was to perform another spell, a much riskier spell. The paths at that time only responded to the equations, but Hermione couldn't possibly know every action every person performed.

The spell- more like a ritual than a spell, really- involved good old-fashioned DNA. Easy enough to get from a large majority of the people on her diagram, but some would be far more difficult to retrieve. Voldemort's, for example.

She would plan for that later. For now, she would do what she could. The next few weeks were spent collecting DNA samples: hairs from Severus and Regulus plucked directly from their scalps as they glowered at her, hairs from the brushes of Lily and the Marauders, saliva samples from many of the Slytherins and staff members, and a surreptitious fur-stealing from Minerva. Albus was the only one to present a problem.

Albus, naturally, was careful about where he left traces of himself. The more Hermione observed him, the more she realized that his long beard and hair were taunts. Once removed from his body, everything lost all scientific evidence of ever having belonged to him.

As tempting as it was, asking him just wouldn't be acceptable. An entirely separate Arithmancy calculation proved that he would only become suspicious and investigate, and there was little chance that he would allow it, anyway.

Fine, she would figure that out later. She would move on.

Political figures also proved difficult, though not impossible. Hermione asked Vici for help often, as the wards on the Ministry didn't do anything to hinder her. Merlin, that loophole was wide open. Did  _ no one _ realize how useful house elves were?

With the Notice-Me-Not conspicuously absent, Albus watched her. He knew she was up to something, clearly.

It didn't matter.  _ Obviously _ it didn't. Hermione wasn't technically doing anything against the rules. Albus would just have to sit his paranoid arse down and wait for her to leave.

Along with May came finals, and Hermione couldn't help being upset. She couldn't really explain it to herself. This had already happened the exact same way before, and she hadn't been sad then.

Severus and Regulus, and especially Regulus, didn't have time to humour her. Hermione offered to help Regulus study, but he declined. Hermione shouldn't have been offended, but she definitely was.

The two people she could even begin to consider her friends were too busy for her, and Hermione didn't have the patience to sulk or find other company. She wished that she had a need to study, herself, but Hermione was thoroughly tired of pretending to find new information from her textbooks.

Instead of puttering around the castle being useless, Hermione took herself to the grounds and paced back and forth. She could pretend that she was doing something else, something more productive, but she was pacing. When she'd acquainted herself with every corner of the fields, Hermione began venturing into the Forbidden Forest.

In hindsight, it was a mistake to be so predictable- to make an effort to present herself as someone with valuable knowledge and then remove herself from protection entirely. It was stupid, plain and simple.

"What are you thinking, Selwyn?" said Travers. Hermione whirled around, reaching for her wand. She nearly tripped on a root, and in her momentary physical disequilibrium she was easy to disarm. "Expelliarmus," he said, lazily, and her wand flew into his outstretched hand.

"I'm thinking that it's awfully rude to disarm someone if you're only planning to have a civil conversation," Hermione hissed. A chill dragged over her skin, puckering as it went. The sun was just beginning to set, but it would be a few hours yet until curfew. During those few hours no one would think to look for either one of them.

"And so it follows that..." Travers prompted. He was smirking, and it wasn't the attractive expression one could have found on one of the Black brothers. The curl of his mouth was both cruel and thoughtless, and it did no favors to the dark hair shorn within an inch of his scalp or the muddy, expressionless eyes. His nose reminded her of Severus's in its length and width, and unlike Severus, it fit his face. He reminded her of a golem, some monster created of clay and wishes to rend without art or thought. If she concentrated perhaps she would be able to make out the fingerprints of his maker.

"You're an arse, and you think I'm daft," Hermione said. "And you don't mean well. If you don't mean to hurt me in some way, you would have returned my wand."

How could she present herself? The truth was unacceptable, obviously, and she could only guess whether his intentions were general or specific. Did he want to know the answers to the exams, or the outcome of the brewing war? Whether he would have a healthy child, or whether wizards would rule over the unworthy Muggles?

"Like you could use it anyway," he scoffed, tossing his head as if his hair were in his face. "You'd just blow yourself up, and then you wouldn't be useful to anyone."

"Point taken," said Hermione. She'd allowed people to believe that her magic was  _ unstable _ , not  _ missing _ . Not an ideal, but one that would explain the answers to questions she couldn't admit the truth of. "But no less rude."

Travers shrugged, his wand not quite leveled at her but not at ease either. "Well, while we're both here, why don't you answer a few of my questions?"

Hermione frowned. Of course, that  _ would  _ be his objective. She was useless except for her knowledge. "If I like your questions, then fine," she said.

"Sit," Travers said, waving his wand and Transfiguring her a chair. It wasn't the effortless gesture he wanted her to think it was; she could see the strain on his face from the nonverbal casting. "We might be here for a while. Oh, and  _ Muffliato. _ "

"One of Snape's spells?" Hermione sneered. "He'd be so flattered." His mouth twitched, and Hermione was conscious that he was becoming irritated. Good; she was irritated too.

"Sit," he said again, and Hermione obeyed rather than make him force her, which would escalate the situation. She didn't  _ like  _ pain, and she wasn't looking forward to its inevitability. "What is your business at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"My guardians are encouraging me to find a suitable spouse." The truth. It would be easiest to stick to the truth.

"Nothing else?" His brow was beginning to contract in an expression which could only be disdain.

Hermione forced a chuckle. "Not really, no. I'm hardly here for a magical education, obviously."

"What project do you work on between classes?"

Did she need any more evidence of her gross negligence? "I have an Arithmancy project." Things were already getting too close to the full truth. But then, how else could she explain away her appearance of being a Seer? How had that seemed like a good idea for so long?

"And its object?"

"I've already told you," Hermione said. Her hands were beginning to shake.

"To find a spouse?"

"Yes."

"How shallow," Travers said, smiling.

"You would think so, I suppose," Hermione said, willfully ignoring his sarcasm.

"What is your purpose in seeking the company of Snape and Black?"

Hermione had anticipated this question, at least, and she had a ready answer. "Snape is entertaining and has accurate observations, and I'm considering Black." Even the thought of marrying Regulus made her want to dig her own grave and lie in it, but she resisted the urge in favor of looking convincing.

"What did you say to them that got them to begin speaking nonsense in the Common Room?"

"As I don't know what they're saying, I cannot answer that." Lie number two.

"About you being a Seer."

Her whole body was tensing up. "Oh, that. Just a few conclusions I came to from running calculations." In direct defiance to her body's nervous reaction, her voice was calm and even a bit condescending.

"What conclusions?"

This was the crossroads. She could lie, or say- "Following the Dark Lord will lead them and their families to premature deaths. The Blacks will apparently become extinct after this generation, for example."

"What other families?" His face was closing off, pinching.

"The Princes, the Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the McKinnons, and so on." She didn't dare say  _ the Traverses _ but perhaps he saw it in how she avoided his eye.

"Why do you say that?" A deep breath. She could see it. He was losing his composure.

It was beyond avoiding, now. He was getting angry already. How did  _ he _ get off trying to intimidate  _ her _ ? She's  _ Hermione bloody Selwyn. _ She'd survived Azkaban, she'd survived Voldemort, she'd survived Bellatrix, she'd survived Dolohov. What could this rat-mustached teenage boy do to her that hadn't already been done? Besides, if he wasn't prepared to hear the answers then why would he seek them out? Stupid boy. "You really don't know? It's so easy to figure out," she said, feigning innocent confusion and swallowing instead of spitting at his feet.

"Enlighten me." Oh, look, he's actually  _ twitching _ . Was it really that easy to rile him up?

"The Dark Lord doesn't actually care about blood purity. It's just the handy springboard for his ascension to power. He's nothing but a corrupt politician- or a cult leader. He doesn't even believe what he preaches."

His breaking point was approaching. "How  _ dare  _ you."

"You asked, mate," Hermione said, borrowing the facetious tone from Sirius.

"You filthy blood traitor." He'd forgotten about his wand- it lay neglected by his side.

"Hardly. How is pointing out the obvious a betrayal to my blood?" Even if he wasn't thinking of his wand right then, his fist was clenched and ready to fly- he was still dangerous. She couldn't afford to get cocky, or she would have her head bashed in. But then she would have something to pin on him, and she could destroy him.

His open palm swung, and Hermione was too slow to avoid it. Her head and torso turned to the side, the left side of her face heated and stung. Her heart was staccato, allegro, adagio. She hadn't believed he would really  _ strike  _ her _. _

"Do you feel better now, Mr Travers?" she asked, and she was calm. Genuinely calm. "It can be difficult to challenge your worldview. Happens to the best of us."

This time it was his fist, but Hermione was prepared for it. She ducked just enough that the blow glanced off her cheek.

"I wonder what it is about physical violence that convinces one that it will help. You don't feel better at all, do you? Hitting things won't stop you from wondering if I'm right."

"Shut  _ up _ ," Travers hissed, teeth bared and face red. "I could kill you! Don't you understand, you crazy bitch?"

"Why would you do that?" Hermione said. "The cons far outweigh the pros. Even if I am a blood traitor like you claim, I'm not some Mudblood no one would miss. All of Britain knows who I am. My absence would be immediately noticed. Besides that, you cornered me here because of the things you think I know. Already, that was a pretty stupid decision. Do you even know how to use an Obliviate, Travers? How will you cover your tracks?"

By now, Travers's face was so red she thought he might burst. Both of his fists were clenched- both! He'd dropped his wand when he slapped her! So even as Travers grabbed her by her hair and punched her square in the nose, Hermione could smile. He didn't know it, but he'd already lost.

"What does pain mean to me?" she asked him aloud, her words necessarily slurred. Blood ran into her open mouth, coating her tongue with a wash of warm pitch copper. "What is your aim? You know it won't help you."

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP OR BY MERLIN I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Aww," said Hermione. "How cute." Her arms, which he hadn't trapped since since she hadn't struggled at all, came up and she dug her thumbs deep into his bulging eyes.

He let go of her immediately to clutch at his face, falling to his knees. Hermione stood, stepped around him, and picked up his wand. It was a pretty little thing, well-maintained. She considered it for a moment before snapping it over her knee.

She should help him. He had no wand, no sight, no companion- it was pretty likely he would die out there if no one brought him back.

She could have helped him. She chose not to.

It took five days for anyone to notice that he was missing. He'd been studying for his NEWTs, and he constantly complained that classes were useless, so for a while everyone assumed he was holed up somewhere. But when no one even saw him by Wednesday, the professors got worried. Albus ran a scan for his magical signature, and when it came up negative Slughorn organized a search.

Hagrid was the one to find him. What was left of him, anyway. By then he was hardly more than bones. That's what Hermione heard, anyway, and she couldn't know just how exaggerated the claim was.

Hermione didn't feel guilty. She should have, but she didn't. A good deed was one that prevented harm from coming to others, right? Perhaps Marlene McKinnon and her family would agree that she'd done the world a favour.

To her delight, no one suspected that she'd had anything to do with it, and she passed her exams again unmolested.

The days before their scheduled return to their homes for the summer were pleasant. (Few actually mourned Travers, and it was decided that he'd just wandered out too far into the Forbidden Forest and gotten lost. It was the Forbidden Forest for a reason, after all.) Even the Ravenclaws came out of hiding and basked in the sun, enjoying this brief respite from responsibility.

Sometimes Hermione forgot that they were just kids. She'd known them as adults, as warriors, as fallen heroes, as traitors. It was hard to keep those images apart. Severus, especially, often bled into her old Professor.

As peaceful as those weeks were, Hermione only felt uneasy. The end was nearing.

She started keeping her Arithmancy notes with her at all times. That year's effort was the most precious thing she possessed, and she wouldn't be able to handle it if she had to leave it behind.

June dawned as chilly and bright as ever, and Hermione spent it writing letters. She would take care of this timeline as much as she could.

The first letter was to Albus, detailing every Horcrux and its location, as well as known Death Eaters and those who could possibly be changed.  _ Protect Lily and James Potter, _ she wrote,  _ but above all protect their son. _

The second letter was to Aberforth, telling him much the same as she'd told Albus.

The third and fourth letters were to Severus and Regulus, and they were the hardest to write. She was placing a lot of responsibility on them both, and especially on Severus. Would it be worth it for him to someday be able to look back and say that he'd done his best? Would that be enough, or would he always look back with regret on his failures?

And Regulus. She just wanted him to live. Take care of Sirius, have children if Sirius didn't, make the right choices. Regulus... what would his life look like if he survived past eighteen? He truly had the potential to be a good man. She believed in him, because otherwise she might cry.

On June 13th, Hermione slept in. She didn't have to worry about missing the Express, or being discovered in a dorm, for the Room of Requirement hid her effectively. The sun was approaching its apex when she called Vici. Together they packed her things, and Hermione took the house elf's arm with a fond little smile. Vici Disapparated them both, and-

The year reset.

 


End file.
